Can't Help Falling In Love
by Somepatriot
Summary: 100 US/UK/US oneshots. A ton of AU's. To celebrate the perfect lovers.
1. Dictionaries and Lanterns

**Hello and welcome to my oneshot fic! This will have a ton of AU's, all USUK/UKUS.**

**Feel free to critique!**

America wasn't really one for tradition. I mean, sure, there's some traditions that really rocked off socks. Like memorial day hamburgers or fourth of July fireworks. But the rest of the traditions were just total old man stuff, dude.

Except maybe one.

Everyone knew of America's super off the hook not-traditional Christmas parties. But no one knew what he did after said party.

It was December 24th, Christmas was right around the corner and America was almost done setting up his super awesome party. The cake had been ordered (it was glow in the dark this year) the decorations had been put up, and the DJ was plugging in his speakers. All was well in the world. Soon countries started arriving. Pretty much everyone was invited as long as, y'know, America wasn't in a war with them at the time. (Last time that happened things got a little messy. Stupid Vietnam.)

Around dusk things really started kicking. France showed up in a slutty little outfit as per usual. It was frickin' cold, dude! How could he stand being in that? Right behind him, no doubt yelling profanities and insisting that he was a proper gentleman, was England.

Alright, slow down, back story here. England was...England. And America loved that. Like, really, actually, for reals loved him. I'm not gonna get into the juicy bits and emotional sap because...well, I'm sure you all have read enough fics to know that shit by heart now. So yeah, America loved England. It was no surprise when his cheeks reddened (it's the cold!) or how he bounded to the Englishman's side and took his jacket just so he could see that sleek form better. It especially explained why America was just so delighted in receiving England's gift. He tore it open right there, and he wasn't even surprised when he found a dictionary staring right back at him. Maybe it was because it was Christmas, maybe it was because America had already downed way too much eggnog, but he just laughed and gathered England into a hug.

That's when he realized it.

He didn't have a present for England in return.

Sure, even if England's gift had just been a gag it would be totally uncool not to give something back! That's like, the whole point of Christmas! So, thinking quickly, America whispered into England's ear: "I'll give you your gift later on tonight. Just stay somewhat sober, alright?"

Then he ran off in a panic, not looking back to see England's face go completely red.

So the party carried on with America floundering about his house, looking for something, anything, that he could wrap really quickly and give to Iggy.

He couldn't. Besides the fact that the dictionary was only to be prude, it _meant _something. It was almost like an inside joke. It was something the two of them understood and shared. How could America give something like that to England? Maybe he should give him a cookbook...

Ugh! It was too late now! He didn't have any cookbooks in the house and he certainly couldn't go out to buy one. (But he was saving that idea for next year.)

Hours passed. The music seemed to get louder as the night grew darker. America's house was really big, but it was packed. People were dancing, kissing, singing. There was food everywhere. Someone (Prussia) had spiked the punch. Half the world was drunk and the other half was laughing at the first. America would have felt proud of himself for throwing such an awesome party had it not been for the fact that he was totally freaking out on the inside.

But before he knew it, he was eating, dancing, and drinking in order to take his mind off of things. It's like writers block, he told himself. If you step back for a while you'll find inspiration somewhere.

America got himself a plate of chicken wings from the buffet. He was about to bite into one when-

_BOOM!_

HOLY MOTHER-

Oh, right. The fireworks. America smiled and rushed outside to see them. Damn, he loved fireworks. It was really cold, but he didn't care. There were fireworks! Alfred brushed some snow off of a brick railing and sat, staring up at the sky and quietly devouring his plate of wings.

But his peaceful mood was shattered when England appeared at his side. "Hullo, America."

America was once again reminded of the need to find a present. "Oh! Hey there..."

England managed a small smile and sat down beside the American."You owe me quite a lot, you know. For staying sober. France makes that very difficult."

America just tried for a lopsided grin. God, he couldn't think of anything to say when he needed to be thinking of ideas!

The fireworks were so distracting.

"Oi, America," England prodded him in the side. "Can I have a wing?"

America nodded numbly. England liked wings? Oh, whatever. You can't wrap those. Probably. America found himself staring at England as he ate. The blonde wasn't really paying attention. He was watching the fireworks, the lights softening in his green eyes so they looked like millions of lanterns.

_That's it! _America almost jumped off the railing in excitement. Why didn't he think of that earlier? It was perfect!

"Do I have sauce on my face or something?" England asked.

America snapped out of his trance and looked at England's lips. Nope. Just a bit red from the cold and absolutely tantalizingly sexy as usual. "No. Why?"

"You were staring at me and smiling like you just found the funniest joke or something. I don't know."

America lent back and ran a cold hand through his hair. Jeez, winter can suck on his jingle bells! He was trying to have a conversation, not freeze to death!

"Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking of your present!" America grinned. "You'll see it soon. Promise."

America winked, left the wings with England, and proceeded to get everything ready.

Of course by the time he was done the entire world was completely plastered. He'd have to congratulate Prussia on that later. People were passed out in random places, others had gone back to their hotel rooms, and others still were laughing far too loudly or getting into horrible fistfights.

"Iggy?" America called. "Iggy! Ready for your present?"

England appeared at his side, holding his head. "Oh, hush, America! Prussia spiked the punch and I'm a tad tipsy. I did try to stay sober."

America clapped England's back. "No worries, dude! You're still standing, and that's all you need to do! Follow me!"  
America took England's hand and led him out to the roof. It was a bit difficult getting a slightly drunk country up there, but he managed. It was worth it when he saw England's face.

The man's eyes widened and his mouth dropped into a lovely little "o".

America had this little tradition. After every Christmas party, when the nations were drunk or leaving, he would sneak up to the roof and light paper lanterns. For each one he would make a wish. Then woosh! They'd fly away like little stars when he cut the ropes.

America had already lit and tied the lanterns with red and green ribbons. There wasn't much wind. They were just tugging at their leashes, wanting to be free.

"Wow, America..." England breathed.

America smiled. "Yeah. It's just a little tradition I have. Usually I don't go all-out like this but I figured I would this year because it is your present."

England gaped at the lights. "You do this...every year? By yourself?"

America walked over to a lantern. "Yep. I have this thing where each lantern is a wish. So I set each one off and hope they come true."

"Have they?"

America turned to look at England. The blonde was wrapped in a thick coat and a gray scarf. America's eyes softened. "I've only ever wished for one thing. But so far it hasn't come true."

England smiled a bit and walked over to the lantern. "Well, let's hope this year will be the year, yeah?"

America nodded, and bowed a bit. "My kind sir," he said in a deep voice, "would you care to honor me by bestowing this lantern with it's first wish?"

England looked surprised, smiled, made a comment about how America was already putting that dictionary to use, and then closed his eyes. He appeared to be thinking very hard. A light blush spread across his cheeks, and then he opened his eyes once more. "Alright, I wished."

America smiled, and brought some scissors from his pocket, snipping the strings. The lantern soared up, so happy to be free. But then the wind caught it and it slowed down, drifting away like leaves in a creek.

England and America continued this way. England wishing, America snipping. When they were all gone the sky was swirling with lazy shooting stars.

"So...what'd ya wish for?"

England blushed. "I only wished for one thing, actually."

America cocked his head. "Really? What?"

"I just...I..." England fumbled for words, his hands flapping a bit and his eyebrows scrunched. "I...Oh, damn this alcohol! I wished that you'd...k-kiss me."

What.

"What?"

England blushed deeper and began frantically waving his hands. "You don't have to! I mean, I get it if you don't feel the same way but...I just...I've started to like you even though you're an idiot and the lanterns were just so pretty..."

America smiled. So he hadn't misheard. America shook his head, blamed it on a Christmas miracle, and tugged England by this hips so he was pressed against him.

"Well, Iggy," he smirked "I think it's only fair you get to know _my wishes. _I only ever wished that I could be with you."

And then he dipped down and captured England's cold lips with his own.

Despite the cold weather, America felt as if he could melt right then.

**So I guess I was feeling for a little Christmas in July, yeah? **

**If you don't know what paper lanterns are, either google them or watch Tangled. They actually exist in real life, believe it or not. America's tradition is actually my tradition. I do it every year on Christmas. Fun times, bro.**

**Sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	2. One Night Stand

**Note: In America, the drinking age is 21. I know. We're crazy.**

Arthur Kirkland was a regular at the _Hetalia Bar. _He was well known for being a heavy drinker, a fairly good karaoke singer, and and hell of a good time.

He was sometimes accompanied by a whore of a Frenchman and his other Europeans that liked to call themselves the bad touch trio. They were quite the life of the party.

Arthur Kirkland was only twenty, but the hell with it, he knew where to get a fake ID. Besides, he probably supplied the bar with half of their profits and the stupid Americans couldn't refuse him now.

Arthur tapped the bar table, smiling to the pretty bartender. He was wearing his usual clothing. Dark, tight jeans and a ripped shirt with the union jack on it. He had a few ear piercings (and a small stud in his nose.)

He was all-out punk tonight, and he felt sexy. (He had every right to he was fucking hot. You should have been there, man.)

Then there was Alfred F. Jones.

He wasn't sexy in the sense Arthur was, but he wasn't lacking either. It was only his third night out on the town. He just got a fake ID, being only eighteen years old. He was with his friend and brother, who were named Matthew and Toris. Alfred was ready to party.

And how can you party without being drunk?

"Hey, I'll have bud." He told the bartender. The man next to him snorted. Alfred looked down his nose to see a punk-looking guy. He had really big green eyes that looked even bigger with the addition of black eyeliner. He was punk. Alfred didn't have anything against punk music, but this guy was kinda weird.

...and really, really hot.

"What?" He asked, trying to keep up a facade of disinterest.

"Budweiser? Really? It's your first drink of the night! Start out with something _fun! _Like...vodka. Or coke and rum minus the coke. Something stronger."

Alfred wrinkled his nose and sat down on the stool next to the stranger. "Oh yeah? Who're you to tell me what to do?"

The man laughed, throwing back his spiked hair. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, that's who! And you better appreciate yourself because I just picked _you _to entertain for the evening."

Alfred didn't really know what was going on. But considering the looks that a few girls were throwing his way he figured Arthur was pretty well-known and on-demand. So he threw caution to the wind and smiled. "Lucky pick."

Arthur laughed and played along. "Oh? Very well. Have you ever heard of jell-o shots?"

It was a good hour and Alfred was so wasted he could barely stand. He was still with Arthur, and he was really starting to like him. He was fun. They sang a few songs together and Arthur had a really good voice. Too bad Alfred was so wasted he couldn't see the lyrics on the screen. Then, as the night grew darker, the music turned faster and the lights grew dimmer. Arthur pulled Alfred onto the dance floor and _holy shit._

Arthur could _move. _Alfred didn't even think it was possible to be so...wiggly. Arthur was grinding him and oh god it felt so good. He was getting hot just looking at him move, it was amazing Alfred could even stand there with the way Arthur was moving. He clung onto his hips and tried to do his best, but he was pretty sure he was just trying not to hump his brains out or something.

Then came his favorite part.

Arthur led him outside and tugged him into an alley. Alfred wasn't concerned with Matthew or Toris or the fact that the alley could have ghosts lurking everywhere. Nope, he just wanted Arthur to _keep moving _against him because he was so hot and his jeans were getting tight.

Arthur, along with being a fantastic dancer, was a mind-blowing kisser. His tongue was sliding over Alfred's and Alfred couldn't stop moaning, especially when Arthur's hand moved below the belt.

"Come back to my flat with me?" Arthur breathed into his ear, eyes half-lidded.

Alfred couldn't agree fast enough.

The ride there was way too long. Arthur was driving, but for all his talents in the bar he was a horrible driver. Probably because he was English and used to the other side of the road or maybe because Alfred kept rubbing his hips and arms.

Either one.

When they finally got to the apartment Alfred pinned Arthur to a wall and ravaged him. Arthur barely had time to kick the door closed before they stripped off their clothes and fell on the bed.

Alfred was engulfed in pure pleasure.

_America! Fuck Yeah! Coming to save the mother fucking day yeah, America!_

Alfred never thought he would say this, but his ring tone was _annoying as hell. _He looked around the room. _Oh shit._

He wasn't in his house. He was in Arthur's apartment.

Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. The guy who just had amazing sex with last night. Well, that explained the hangover. The horrid hangover at that. Oh god, _he could see noises._

Alfred leaned over the bed and fumbled through his discarded pants (he was butt-ass naked currently) and quickly turned off his phone.

The noise stopped, and Alfred breathed again. He fell back into the pillows, when he realized.

He was still in Arthur's apartment.

Fuck.

He was about to freak out. One night stands never happened to him. He liked relationships. He liked being able to know they person you were having sex with.

Speaking of that person, he was moaning now. It was that way-too-early-please-just-five-more-minutes groan that signified waking. Alfred's heart began to speed up as he watched the blonde. He still looked good.

That eyeliner he had been wearing smeared off, but Alfred thought his eyes looked better without it. His hair wasn't spiked. In fact, it was really messy. But that was adorable, especially when Arthur's eyes blinked open inches away from his own. Alfred could tell Arthur was hung-over. He stared around groggily before his eyes widened. "What are you still doing here?" He shouted.

Alfred winced. Loud noises were not his friend today. "I just...I guess I didn't want to leave."

Arthur sat up and started getting out of the bed. "W-well, leave already!" Arthur stood up, but immediately winced and stopped moving.

Yeah, he might have bottomed, and apparently awesome sex had a price.

"Hey, are you okay? Arthur, lay back down. I'll get out of the bed if it makes you more comfortable. I'm sorry, it's my fault just lay back down."

Now Alfred was out of the bed, looking for his boxers. Oh—there they are. He pulled them on and turned back to Arthur, pushing him back into the bed. Arthur complained a bit but didn't put up much of a struggle, so Alfred managed to get him back under the covers. Alfred was tugging on his jeans when he asked "Do you want water or anything? Asprin?"

Arthur looked so small in that comforter.

Alfred looked around the flat, and he didn't see what he had expected to. He didn't see guitars and cd's. He saw bookshelves and a really old computer. Pictures of London were hung up around the room. It was...homey.

"Why are you still here? Don't you know how these things work? You leave, and we never see each other again."

Alfred felt his heart give an awful stutter at that. Never see Arthur again? But...no!

"But I want to see you again, Artie!"

Arthur spluttered. "Artie?" He repeated.

"Yeah! Please, dude? I know...I mean I guess you're not really into long term relationships but will you at least go on a date with me?"

Arthur blushed. His mouth moved as if to say something, but nothing came out. Then he looked down at the sheets. "It's not that I don't like relationships. It's just that...well, no one had ever offered me a second date..."

Alfred almost tripped. _What? _Do they not realize how awesome Arthur is? Well, hes glad they didn't because now he was all his!

"Well, then how about tonight at six? We can go out to eat. We don't even have to have sex after. Unless, y'know, you want to."

Arthur looked up. He smiled. "Alright, we'll see."

Alfred was so happy he felt like laughing.


	3. Tips

Alfred made his way through the restaurant. He used to love coming to this place as a kid, and he still did now. It was a small place in town that had burgers and ice-cream. Alfred smiled.

He was in college now and he couldn't help but reflect on the fonder times. Life had become so serious, especially after he started working on his astro-physics degree. He might be good at science, but he wasn't perfect.

Not to mention his student loans were already starting to pile up, and if he had to eat one more bowl of instant ramen he thought he might puke.

For this reason he went out and got himself a job. The pay was low, the hours weren't the best, but he liked what he did and he did it well.

What _does _he do, you ask?

Oh, if only I could answer simply.

"Thanks, mister!" A cute redhead beamed, her front teeth missing. Alfred patted her on the head. "Sure thing, kiddo," he smiled.

The little girl's parents looked a little bored, but complimented her on her new balloon hat. The father reached into his wallet and tipped Alfred five dollars.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," Alfred said. Anything helped. But really, the kids smiles were enough.

And maybe a hamburger or two.

Alfred moved on to the next table where a young blonde boy was looking at him eagerly. He was cute, too, with big blue eyes and strangely large eyebrows. "Hey there, kiddo! What's your name?"

The boy smiled broadly. "It's Peter!"

"Well, Peter, do you want a balloon animal?"

The boy turned to the man in the opposite booth. He was blonde as well but he had beautiful green eyes. A matching set of eyebrows were placed above them, but instead of Peter's bright smile he wore a sort of scowl. "Yes, yes. I suppose."

Alfred finally took note of their English accents. Peter's was fainter, as if he had been around Americans more. "Alright, what do you want, Peter?"

"A goat!"

Alfred paused. No one ever wanted a goat before. A horse, yes. But a goat?

The man in the booth spoke up. "I don't think he can make a goat, Peter."

Alfred laughed. He pulled a gray balloon from his pocket and started to fill it up with a mechanical pump. "Hey, Dad, don't doubt my powers!"

To Alfred's bemusement, the man spluttered and Peter snickered.

"I'm not his father! I'm his brother!"

Alfred stooped down to whisper in Peter's ear, "well age must not sit well with 'em, yeah?"

Peter looked delighted. A new person to make fun of his brother with!

The man huffed. "At least I'm not dressed like _that."_

Alfred looked down at himself. Okay, he looked ridiculous. He was wearing suspenders and a red bow tie, so he wasn't the most popularly dressed guy around. "Hey, I didn't choose the uniform." Alfred winked, and twisted off the balloon.

The man rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm well aware. Maybe if you weren't such a stupid American you could get a better job."

Peter frowned. Alfred just laughed. "Naw, I'm just working this job for some extra cash. I'm in school right now for an astro-physics major, and I was running low. Plus, I like making the kids smile, y'know?"

Arthur blinked. "_Astro-physics?_"

Alfred was almost done with the balloon animal. Peter was watching him eagerly, but Alfred was focused on Arthur's green eyes. "Yep. It's hard but I love it."

Arthur just nodded. Alfred twisted one last balloon into place, and handed the now slightly puffy goat to Peter. Peter was delighted.

Arthur eyed the thing with a bit of surprise. Peter smiled and looked up at Alfred. "Thanks, mister!"

Alfred laughed and patted his head. "Please, just Alfred." He turned to Arthur. "Well, it's been nice talking."

He started to move on to the next table, but he heard that accented voice calling him back.

"Wait! I...here." Arthur handed him something from his wallet. Alfred expected it to be a tip, but instead it was a small business card. Arthur was blushing. "Call me."

Alfred stared at him with wide eyes. Then he smiled. "Sure!"

It was the best tip he'd ever gotten.

**I love it when Al is a dork.**

**Thanks for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	4. Sod Off

Alfred sighed. Today had been pretty rough, what with his failing English. Oh, he was going to be _killed _when he got back home. Deciding he wanted to spare himself a bit longer, Alfred turned into the local park. It wasn't very big, just a garden wedged behind the local library. But this park was special to him. When he was a little kid he would wander in there just to get away from the cramped streets and buildings. It was a relief to see such color beyond the library. The Garden overlooked a small prairie, giving it that never-ending dreamy feel. Alfred owed this place a lot. It had been his sanctuary for who knows how long.

Alfred leaned against an oak tree, shoving his hands in his pockets. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he noticed a man, bent over the grass. His pants were dirtied as was his shirt. His hair was rumpled, and he was staring intently at some newly dug earth. Alfred shoved off the tree and walked over. "What are ya doin'?"

The man didn't even flinch. "I'm watching a flower grow." He replied. Alfred cocked his head to the side. Well, that was odd. But all the same, he sat down next to the man and looked over at the soil too.

"Is it done yet?"

"Does it look done yet?"

"No…"

The man sighed. "Then it's not done."

Alfred crinkled his nose. "Will it be done _soon?_"

The man gave an exasperated huff. "Oh, sod off! Who are you anyway?"

Alfred would have replied, if he wasn't too busy laughing.

"What? What is so funny?"

Alfred clutched at his stomach. "Sod off? Get it? _Sod?_"

The man rolled his eyes. "As if the gardener never heard that one before."

**If you don't get the joke, than you obviously don't do much yard work.**

**Based off th****is photo:**

** 24**.**media**.**tumblr**.**com/tumblr_m6gq5av9ZF1qmifgso1_500**.**jpg**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	5. Come With Me to 1933

America was on his way to a world meeting. He wasn't looking forward to it. He'd actually been in a sort of bad mood lately. He was never good at being in a bad mood.

Luckily, he knew just the cure. Taking his ipod out of his pocket, he began searching for the headphones.  
"Where are ya?" He asked them. They didn't answer.

Frustrated, America figured he left them at home. Ah well. He'd just have to make do.

Scanning the surrounding area for signs of life, he ducked into an abandoned hallway, smiling slightly. He scrolled through his playlist, and eventually found it.

It was a really old song from the 1930's. He had a certain liking for old music from that decade. It reminded him of old times, even if they weren't particularly good times.

"Hey, Ba-Ba-Re-Bop!" America whispered along. He smiling was growing, and his foot was tapping to the uptempo beat. It took him back to the old days, he felt like he was wearing brown trousers and black dress shoes, a plaid blue shirt tucked into his high waistline.

He laughed slightly, and started dancing slightly. His mood was really starting to lift. Well, until a snort was heard behind him.

America whipped around, and to his horror, he found a certain Englishman staring at him with the smuggest expression.

America blushed up to his ears. "Oh, uh...hey there England. Didn't see you."

Faintly, America heard the song changing in the background. England rolled his eyes and stepped closer to America. "Well, obviously," he proclaimed, taking America's hands. He was...smiling. He began to slowly twist to the music.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm dancing, come on now." England said with another roll of his beautiful green eyes. "I...Well, I'm surprised America. I didn't think you listened to this sort of thing anymore. I thought you'd be into that new pop and rap."

America began to loosen up. "Sometimes it's nice to remember the old days, I guess."

America started to swing in tune with England. He was surprised England could still dance this wonderfully.

"It reminds me of the war," England said quietly. It was true. It wasn't uncommon for soldiers to go out to a pub and listen to some tunes, dance with someone, have a drink. Because really, what else could you do?

"Yeah," America agreed breathlessly. The song changed again. England's eyes brightened, and he smiled grandly. "This was one of my favorites."

America felt England's hands unclasp from his own. England spun, his feet started moving faster. America followed his example, and soon they were swinging, just like back in the old days. America grabbed England's hips and hoisted him into the air. He was so light. And just like that, they were dancing as if they had never stopped, using all the old moves, the under-the-legs, twirling, America even saw England throw in a few fancy patterns he'd never seen before.

But the song was coming to an end, and their dancing slowed. "This is the part where you dip me," England reminded America.

America smiled. He did as he was told, easing down England. But suddenly they weren't in a dusty old hallway with an ipod struggling to play the music loud enough.

Now they were in a pub. Their were allied soldiers cheering all around them, dancing, drinking, clapping one another on the back. America was easing England down, because of course they had to have a victory dance. England was smiling so wonderfully. His face was dirty and his eyes had bags under them, there was even a cut on his forehead, but it didn't matter. He was downright beautiful. Because he was smiling.

But then America was back in that hallway, and his nose was just brushing England's, and the very same beautiful country was staring at him with wonderfully green eyes, breathing heavily.

Then, the eyes closed and England's lips brushed against America's.

America's eyes widened and he blushed immediately. But there was a spark. He couldn't let it die out. So he pressed back against the kiss. England's arms curled around his neck. He shifted the blonde country and pulled him up so he could hold him normally.

When they finally broke the kiss, America found he was left even more breathless than he was from the dancing.

"Well," he gasped. "Looks like someone still has their moves."

England smirked. "Yes, well, let's not make a habit of this dancing."

America squeezed him tighter. "Aw, why not? I think we should dance more often."

England looked up at him slowly. "Not to any of that blasted rap you call music. I won't have that." America laughed at the shorter's expression. "Of course not. Besides, this music is the best to dance to, old man."

"I am not old!"

"Yeah you are, you're like three thousand years old or something!" America laughed. England glared at him, and began to struggle in his grip. But America didn't let him go. "Hey, you don't look a day over one thousand and two."

England stopped wriggling and rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, thank you ever so kindly for the lovely compliment!"

America waved him off. "There'll be more if you stick around!" America's smile faded a little, and he paused. "But...well...Arthur, will you go out with me?"

England cocked his head. "Go out with you? Where?"

"No, like, go out with me." America tried again, feeling flustered. "How do you old people say it? Um...oh! Courting! Will you...uh...court with me?"

England looked at him and then laughed lightly "Yes of course America, it would be lovely to court you," he smiled taking his hand, bowing and kissing the back of it

America giggled at the absurdity of it all, but bowed to England. "How joyous!" he proclaimed. "Shall we go to lunch after the meeting that we are now most certainly late for, my dear England?"

England's eyes widened, and he pulled away from America, staring at his watch like he couldn't believe it. "Oh, bollocks! The meeting!"

With that, he took off down the hallway, America laughing and following at a slower pace.

**I hope you enjoyed!**

**I really like the idea of America listening to old music. I'm obsessed with it.**

**This was adapted from a fantastic RP I had with the lovely **kez13100 **they're quite the nice person. **

**Thanks everyone for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**

**ps-**

**I strongly suggest you give this music a shot if you're into the world war eras. That is all!**


	6. Anti The Holic

"It's clear, Mr. Jones, sir," the doctor informed Alfred. The blonde nodded and entered the white room. Everything was crisp, clean, and sanitized. "Close me in," he informed them.

The scientist nodded and punched a few numbers on a keyboard. The heavy doors drew shut, and Alfred was left in complete solitude.

"Begin sequence!" He shouted.

Sparks ignited on the walls, flaring blue lightning across the room.

Alfred drew a deep breath. Now he was America, not the silly human he made up to sponsor this program. It had been years, hundreds of years, and now he finally believed he had the technology to accomplish his secret dream: to travel back in time.

Of course, he didn't want to go very far. A few hundred years, is all. To fix things. Not really change anything drastic, but...

Well, to him, it was extremely important.

"England..." he whispered. "You never did like science, did you? But science is what will fix everything, it has to. Time physics, it all adds up."

America allowed himself a humorless smile. "I'll see you soon, I guess."

The sparks were getting heavier. He could feel the engine whirring under his feet.

…

England tried to focus on his breathing. "Stupid...this is all your fault," he muttered. "But I'll fix it. I will, I promise."

England closed his threw out his arms, and started drawing them in a slow circle. "It's funny," he whispered to himself and yet to someone else. "You are always going on about science. But theory, chance, magic. That is true power."

Orange-yellow sparks appeared at his fingers. Slowly the floor started liquidating, and a skeleton was pushed out halfway. England bent on his knee and exclaimed it, brushing at it's cheekbones. All the while he was chanting, in some language that was not English. He briefly wondered who the skeleton was. An old friend of his, perhaps? A random citizen?

Who knew?

England felt the magic give a definite tug, and suddenly he wasn't in the library anymore. He was standing alone with a large clock behind him. The skeleton was gone and he felt terribly lonely.

…

America was alone in a white room with nothing but a large clock behind him.

"_I'm coming."_

**Well hello there.**

**If you are very confused, I'm sorry. This was inspired by the rather popular youtube video called Anti the Holic. I can't speak anything but English and extremely limited French, so I have no idea what they are saying. This is just what I thought it would be about, I thought it was cool. Even if it's completely wrong, I thought it was a neat idea.**

**Anyone know what they're saying?**

**Hope you enjoyed! Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	7. Dangerous Doodles

Alfred smiled and waved to Gilbert as he passed his desk on the way to his own. He was a mail sorter at a large company. He loved his job. He had a good paycheck, okay hours, and amazing coworkers.

_Amazing coworkers._

Okay, maybe it was just one in particular, and he wasn't even his "co"worker. He was his boss, and his name was Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred was horribly in love with him. And can you blame the guy? Arthur was perfect in ever single way, from the way he walked (which Alfred had completely memorized) to the way he said "yes, Alfred? Did you need something?"

Of course Alfred would only blush, mutter some sort of excuse and escape out the fastest way possible. Then he would go back to his office and stare dejectedly at his stuffed bunny which was graced with Arthur's glorious eyebrows.

His brother, and everyone else in the office, noticed this. Except for Arthur. And how could he? He was way too mature and perfect and beautiful and he would never ever in like a bajillion years go for some dork like Alfred, right dude?

Of course that all changed when Alfred was walking through the hallway and saw Mr. Kirkland coming around the corner. The American immediately took evasive action, blushing, and decided that hiding behind a flower pot was a sufficient disguise.

Luckily for him, Arthur either didn't see him, or the more likely, he chose to ignore him. (Arthur always seemed to have the strange feeling that someone was watching him...)

Arthur walked right past the completely nonchalant plant, and Alfred breathed a sigh of relief.

He emerged from his leafy haven, only to hear a crinkle beneath his shoe. He peered down and realized it was a piece of paper. Mr. Kirkland must have dropped it. Surely.

Alfred picked up the paper and looked it over briefly to make sure he hadn't stepped on any important documents. It was only a sheet of notebook paper with a few numbers and doodles on it. The drawings were actually pretty good. There was a phone booth for whatever reason, and some tea (Mr. Kirkland love tea. No cream. Two sugar cubes. Sometimes a bit of honey.) Alfred smiled at the little pictures of unicorns and fairies.

Then, he saw it.

Off to the corner, hidden under a gnome, was a little heart with the words "Alfred + Arthur" written in neat script. Alfred almost dropped the paper.

Okay, no way was this Mr. Kirkland's. It had to have been Mattie or—worse yet—Kiku playing a trick on him.

But...

He stared down at the paper in his hands and a light blush crept up his neck and planted itself in his cheeks.

It would be nice to imagine that Arthur really did draw this. And that it's wasn't just a fake.

Alfred smiled nervously and tucked the paper into his pocket. Then he returned to work, in a far better mood.

…

Arthur Kirkland slapped the portfolio down on his desk and began rustling through the drawers of his desk. He needed to find a spreadsheet, but for the life of him, he could not remember where he placed it!

He shuffled through his drawers once more before coming to the conclusion that it must be under the portfolio be brought with him. He walked over to it, but something looked different.

After a while of brain-picking, he remembered there had been the scrap paper on top, the one with the unicorns and such. Oh well, all ends well.

As he lifted up the portfolio to retrieve the spreadsheet that was now staring back at him, he remembered.

_The heart._

Arthur burst out of the office and down the hallway, hoping that a certain plant hadn't been too curious.

**Hello! I hope you all enjoyed. This was inspired by one of my all time favorite ask blogs on tumblr called askmailmanjones. I totally suggest that you check it out. **

**Thanks so much for all the reviews.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	8. Special Relationship

**Note: I am going to refer to the ball as both soccer and football. Whichever character is focused will be the term used.**

France sighed as he sat down beside his two best friends, Prussia and Spain. "Ah, mes amis..." he began, puffing out his cheeks as he stared out at the football field. "I do not zhink I can take zhis sexual tension much longer."

Prussia nodded and looked very convinced as he stared at the pair fighting over the football. "Yeah man." He said. "Even the awesome me is getting tired of it."

Spain blinked and looked between his friends. "Huh? What are you talking about? It's just England and America."

"Exactly!" France exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a well practiced I-give-up motion. "Zhey have been pining after each other for at least a century. I am getting so tired of zhe act!"

Spain looked thoughtful. "So, they like each other?" He asked, while France debating slamming his head into a pole.

"I've got it!" Prussia declared loudly, standing up. "We'll make them admit their feelings! With the power of beer!"

…

England was very used to being jumped by the self-proclaimed "bad touch trio". However, America wasn't. When the three bounded from the stands and literally attacked England all at once, America forgot all about soccer and dropped the ball. "Dudes, what the hell?"

England was spouting some profanities (mostly directed at France) and kicking. But he could not get the three nations off of him, even when Prussia turned to glance at America.

Of course America was the hero, so he had to help England! He jogged over and pried Prussia off of the Englishman, then Spain, and a very unwilling France. When they were all away, America bent down and asked "are you okay dude?"

England didn't get to answer, because France was already up and stalking towards them. "See?" He cried. "Zhe boy iz already possessive and protective!"

Prussia rubbed his head and grumbled. "They already act like a couple."

America lifted England up off the ground and turned to stare at the three offending nations. "What are you talking about?"

England grumbled as he brushed himself off. "Don't mind them, they always spout nonsense."

France rolled his eyes. "Oui, of course. But we want you two to go out with us to zhe bar."

"The bar?!" England repeated. "It's barely past noon!"

Prussia laughed. "It's never too early for beer! But yeah, we're going later tonight. Around seven. You guys should come."

England and America exchanged glances. America seemed all for it, he loved partying and drinking (even if he didn't always show it) but England seemed repulsed. The two nations seemed to have a silent argument (like a couple, as France would assure you) but America ended up winning out in the end. He smiled broadly and wrapped the Englishman in his arms. "Thanks, Iggy! You're the best!"

Francis snorted as England fought his way from the American's grip, blushing. It was a wonder they hadn't realized it themselves.

Once they had all agreed where to meet, America picked up the "fine! Fine! 'football'! Jeez, happy now?" and turned to England. "Alright, who's driving?"

France stopped in his tracks where he was leaving. "Oh, come on!" He complained to an understanding Prussia.

"I know, just hold on. Just hold on..."

…

Later, America and England arrived at the agreed pub. Of course they arrived in the same car, and America opened the door for England, and complimented him on his (punk) outfit, and the whole time France was struggling not to hang himself.

Spain smiled and patted his friend on the back. "It's okay, mi amigo, they haven't even started drinking yet, you know? All in good time."

France nodded slowly, looking a bit pale.

As the blonde pair walked towards the group of three, Prussia held out a generous amount of beers. "Hey, nice of you to finally show up!" He laughed. "But, ey, America, you know that game...what's it called? Oh! Beer Pong. Ya wanna get a game started?"

America smiled. "Oh, hell yeah! I'll totally beet ya!"

England's eyebrows dipped (which was quite the sight.) "Oi, a game? I'm in. I'll easily beat you, America."

America smirked and leaned close to England's face. "Oh really?" He challenged.

England's expression hardened. "Really. What are the stakes?"

America straightened up and winked. "The usual."

England nodded, and they shook on it.

The bad touch trio watched this exchange with numerous feelings. "Uh, mi amigo," Spain whispered into France's ear "maybe...maybe they're already dating?"

France shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, mon ami, I would not be surprised if you told me Arthur was actually a magical pigeon, at zhis point."

…

It only took the boys an hour to get completely hammered. Neither of them were the best drunks. Their tolerance was at an almost zero, and England became very sexual. America, on the other hand, grew very emotional. About everything.

"It's just..." Alfred sniffed. "Why is the world so cruel? He didn't deserve to die!"

"Alfred, it's a peanut."

"B-but...he went through all the trouble of growing big and strong only to be crushed and eaten!"

Prussia face-palmed. Clearly, his plan wasn't working out too well.

England pouted and wandered over to America's side, of more specifically, his waist. "Aw, there there, love." He stroked at his face even though he was almost glued to his side. He almost looked like he was trying to sit on his lap, despite the fact America was on a bar stool. "Do you want a kiss to make it all better?"

Alfred's eyes widened, and at first he said nothing. France lifted his head from his arm in some flash of hope, but it was to no avail.

America desperately shook his head no, almost pushing England away. "DAS GAY!"

Prussia tapped America on the shoulder. "Dude, you're bisexual."

America blinked. Then he smiled. "Yeah! It's so cool I mean everything is cool but it's cool too and I...I love life!" He began to laugh.

England joined in, although far more haughtily.

But they eventually grew bored of each other, and England went off to flirt with a pole, while America screamed at the bartender because he "looked at me funny! Let's fight! Come at me bro!"

Eventually they were all thrown out of the bar, and the two blondes could barely stand.

"Flawless plan, Prussia!" France grumbled as he hauled the heavy American to one of their cars. Gilbert dragged a somewhat conscious England after him. "Well _excuse me! _How was I supposed to know they would do this? Everything looked like it was going so well..."

Spain held open the car door as his friends pushed in the two drunken nations. "I do not know, mi amigos. Maybe it was meant to be this way, you know?"

France and Prussia exchanged glances.

"You know what? I don't even care anymore." Prussia shrugged and slammed the door closed. France followed him to the other car. "Agreed."

…

In the morning, England and America found themselves dumped in the hallway of England's flat, with no recollection of the night before.

"Dude, did something happen last night?"

England shrugged. "Who knows? Oh, how about you make my favorite for breakfast? It's been a while, and I'm hungover."

America groaned and tossed England the painkiller they kept in the cabinet. "Sure, I'll make your tea plain, too."

"Thanks, poppet. And you may as well stay the night, too. We can share the bed again, it's no problem."

America shrugged and turned on the stove. "Alright, but I'm going to bed early tonight, I've got a killer headache."

"As I assumed."

**Ahaha XD**

**Hello everyone! I had this idea suddenly, due to the Olympics. The British tend to favor the Americans if not themselves, and vice versa. They don't even seem to do it on purpose. It's just like it comes naturally. **

**So of course this weaved into their "special relationship" which then went on into this.**

**Hope you enjoyed, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American.**

**-Mallory**


	9. Hallelujah

America stared across the room, as he found he had often been doing. There was England, and once again, he was frowning. America missed England's smile. He couldn't bring himself to miss his laugh—that was too rare. America was completely and irrevocably in love with the man who was perpetually unhappy.

America wondered what he ever did to deserve such a thing.

England, in his opinion, was probably one of the most beautiful things that existed on Earth. His eyes were wise and full of life. He swore they stared right into his soul.

His hair was always messy, but he wouldn't be England without that. America had noticed that he had this little habit. Whenever the Englishman was thinking, he would run his hand through his hair, tousling it even further.

England thought a lot.

America took a breath and crossed the room. The world meeting was finally over, and he could now talk to him. Tell him a joke. A funny story. Anything to make his stop frowning for just a little while.

"Hey Iggy!" America called. The man in question was pushing some papers into his briefcase. He glanced up at America and scowled. "Go away, you git. And for the last time my name is _England._"

America shrugged. "Hey, the other day I was over at Mattie's house, and Russia came over, and _oh man, _that was hilarious! Said something about Alaska and British Colombia and becoming one, but anyway-"

England sighed and snapped his briefcase closed. "America, as much as I would love to hear another wonderful story about you and all your many friends, I have a headache and I must be going."

America could only frown as England walked away.

…

The next day America decided to switch tactics. Clearly England didn't like stories or jokes. So what else made people smile? Gifts! Luckily, the meeting had been hosted in Italy, so all America had to do was ask if Italy would cook up something for him. Italy was happy to help, and he even let America slice some tomatoes. America liked talking to Italy. He was always happy and smiling. His jokes were terrible, but they were still jokes. Plus, he was an awesome cook. "Ve, okay! Do you have everything, America? Si? Okay, well, go make England smile! Good luck!"

America shifted the basket on his arm to tip an imaginary hat. "Thanks, Italy!"

When America made it to England's hotel room, he was feeling much more confident about his plan. He would get England to smile. He wrapped on the door (because that was the proper thing to do, and England loved manners.) "England! It's America."

America heard some cursing from behind the door and something fell and clattered to the ground, which was only followed by more cursing. Then the door was torn open and a disgruntled looking England was peering at America skeptically. "Whatdoyawant?" He slurred.

America's shoulders sagged. England was drunk. It was only two in the afternoon!

"England..." he sighed, and he eyed the Brit sadly. "You were drinking? Why?"

"I was not drinkin thanks very much! Butt even if I was, 'snot like I was thinkin bout you er nothing!"

America let himself inside, and placed the basket of food on the ground by the door. He helped England over to the couch and laid him down. "I don't know what I did, dude, but I'm sorry."

"Yer not sorry! Ya liar!" England cried. "Neither is the rest of the world! I don't care though! I don't care!"

America frowned deeply. He hated seeing England like this. It didn't happen often, because the Brit normally was a very flirty and sexual drunk, if he even managed to get himself into such a stupor. But on very rare occasions he would drink to cover up some feelings, or memories, and he ended up alone at home in the dark.

America hated it.

He searched the entire hotel room for every last drop of alcohol, though there wasn't much left. By the time he was done, England was passed out on the couch, snoring heavily. America drained the bottles into the sink and threw out the glass. As he turned to go, he dropped a note in the basket.

England found it along with the cold food very early the next morning.

_Hey England,_

_Italy and I thought that you could use something to smile about. I thought maybe we could have lunch together, but you were drunk. So maybe next time._

_-America_

…

America hadn't been himself for quite the long time. The World Meeting was over, but he hadn't made one ridiculous speech. He didn't even voice an opinion, or interrupt Germany. He just sat at the table and stared at his hands, or occasionally England with the most melancholy expression Canada had ever seen. His concern was so great Canada had to go to France for help.

"I have seen this before," France explained to him. "The poor boy, he's in love."

Canada's eyes widened. "He is? How are you sure? With who?"

France smiled sadly. "He has fallen for England. I know because there is no greater pain than seeing the one you love so unaware of what could quite possibly make them the happiest they could ever be."

Canada wasn't sure what to say. "Did...did something like this happen to you, France?"

France sighed. "Whether it has or has not, there is nothing I can do. However, America still has a chance. You help him, and I'll deal with...England."

Canada nodded. He turned towards the door, ready to meet up with his brother at the airport. But before he went, he cast one last glance towards France. He could have sworn he saw a tear drip down his cheek.

…

"Last call for New York City." The woman at the desk called. America tapped his foot with worry. Where was his brother? He always took the New York flight with him and then they drove to the border together. He was never late. Had something happened to him?

America had no choice but to board the plane. His boss would get so mad at him if he didn't come home on time. America buckled up his seat belt, and stared worriedly down the isle.

Mattie would just have to take the next plane, America supposed.

"Please buckle your seat belts and prepare for take off!"

America heard the familiar sound of the plane's engine roaring. The door at the front of the plane was closed.

But then, it was throw open once more, and there was a flash of red. "ALFRED F. JONES GET OFF THIS PLANE RIGHT NOW."

America's jaw dropped at the use of his human name. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. The flight attendants were trying to push Matthew out of the plane, and one of them was calling security. The other passengers were starting to panic.

"ALFRED, NOW," Canada repeated. America had never heard him like this. He never yelled. But now he was struggling against the flight attendants and he looked so desperate. "It's Arthur, you have to go see him!"

Panic filled America's heart. Had something happened? Was there a bomb? No one looked hostile in the meeting...

America raced to his brother's side, and pulled him away from the staff. "What? What happened to Eng- I mean Arthur?"

Matthew tugged on America's hand. "Come on, we have to _go!"_

America had no problem pushing past multiple airport security guards and policemen in order to leave as quickly as possible.

…

France was trying to talk to England. Of course, this was not a very good idea. England had been falling into a more horrid mood each day. Ever since America left that note. It's true that England had been in a bad mood. Not anything terribly serious. It wasn't depression or anything that he wouldn't get over eventually. But the fact that America had cared, and had gone out of his way to cheer him up, ignited a familiar feeling in him. Loneliness. He wasn't the most social of nations, and he tended to avoid any gatherings he could. But when he did go, it was awkward standing around alone, and he was put in another bad mood, which caused him to only become less social. It was a never-ending cycle.

Now here was France of all people telling him to get off his arse and try to have that lunch with America and stop feeling sorry for himself. That truly struck a cord. "Shut up, you damn frog! I don't feel sorry for yourself! If anyone, that's you!"

France sat back, and looked pained. "But the difference between you and I, England, is that I care about the thing that makes me happy. So I care about myself. You don't."

England scowled. He was the great and proud British Empire (or was.) He didn't need some frog telling him what he did and did not feel.

"What are you even on about, France? Why are you even getting involved in my life?"

France glanced up at the ceiling. "Selfish reasons, I guess. I need to see you and America work out your problems, so that I might find the courage to mend mine. Ignorance is a terrible disease, England. But knowledge is terminal."

England stood up from his chair. "When did you become a bloody old sap? You're spouting words as if you're actually poetic, what are you trying to pull here, France?"

"I'm the country of love! Just as America feels it's his duty to be the hero and 'let freedom ring' and all that _merde, _I want to spread love in this world."

England blushed and backed up. "Who ever said anything about love? Love is...it's stupid!"

France's face hardened and he leaned forward. "How so?"

England seemed flustered. He was looking about the room. He was angry and scared. "It always leaves you! But I don't need it, I can be happy on my own. So maybe I've been in a bad mood for a few weeks, that happens to everyone."

France just shook his head. "Wasn't it one of your poets who said 'tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all'?"

Arthur's eyes widened. "I don't care! Shut up! How do you even know—I mean! Get out of my room!" England pulled the Frenchman off the couch and over to the door. He swung it open, and was surprised to see two familiar blonde boys. "America? Casanada?"

America looked overwhelmed with joy that England was alright, but Canada just sighed and whispered something like "my name is _Canada." _

"Iggy! You're okay! Mattie came onto the plane and he was yelling and oh my god I thought you died or something and..." America pushed Arthur's hand away from France's shirt so he could hug him. "I was really worried."

France got up, and brushed himself off. He walked over to Canada and smiled somewhat. "I think our mission is almost complete." He whispered.

England blushed heavily and looked at America. "Idiot...why were you worried?"

"Because I care about you England. A lot." America was still holding England, and somehow the Brit's arms had snaked their way up America's shoulders. And England felt so warm and comfortable, he almost completely forgot about what France had told him.

Almost.

"I...I'm sorry, America."

America just smiled a bit. He pulled England tighter to himself, and kissed him. England's eyes flew wide open, and he started struggling and screaming.

When he managed to get the American off of him, he grabbed his hand and growled. "_We are going to have a very long talk."_

But as he pulled him into the hotel room, England threw a glare back at France. And France thought he saw the smallest hint of a smile.

The door snapped shut.

Canada's shoulders sagged. "Well, that failed."

"_Non, mon petit un,_" France declared. "The reason he's so mean to America is that he doesn't want to fall back in love. He believes it's a nuisance and it isn't needed when... it's really what he needs the most."

Canada looked up at France, and smiled.

**THE END**

**Yes, I left it off here. I want you guys to decide what happened in that hotel room with Iggy and Alfie. And as for who France was so sad about: That's up to you as well. Perhaps some one-sided FrUk? Jeanne D'arc? Canada himself? Whichever you prefer.**

**~Fun Fact~**

**The English Poet who said "Tis better to have loved and lost..." is named Alfred.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	10. Dork

When I first started dating Arthur things didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped. I've always been pretty confident. I mean, I am the hero. But just when I thought I'd finally done something right, Arthur would turn his nose up at me and declare me stupid.

So...you could imagine why I was terrified to kiss him.

When we got together it wasn't like in the movies. I hadn't seen him for months, and the whole time we were apart all I did was think about him. Because just the night before I left to go back to America (and back to work) I realized that...

might actually like Arthur.

So like an idiot I got him in a bar and I looked him straight in the eye and I said the most intelligent thing my brain had to offer:

"I'm gay for you."

Luckily, Arthur had been intoxicated enough to find it funny. So I left the next morning with a light heart and a heavy skull.

Those two months dragged on like decades. I couldn't call him. He was working away in London, and I was across the Atlantic and too many time zones. On the rare occasion that we threw a text to each other, it was only short quipped messages like:

"How are you?" and "We've been getting quite a bit of rain recently..."

Then there I was at the airport. He was there too. I felt panic grip my chest, every fantasy of this moment that had accumulated over the days came rushing back to me. But all I said was:

"Hey."

I was blushing. I was nervous. I couldn't stand properly because nothing seemed comfortable. Suddenly my tongue was too large for my mouth.

But Arthur just lazily raised his large eyebrows and muttered "Hello, Alfred. Care to go to lunch?I'm a bit peckish."

Just like that we were off. Eating was hell for me. I knew Arthur hated it when I ate like a "horrid little piglet" but it would be too obvious if I didn't eat like one. I was stumbling to simply order a diet coke.

But Arthur just smiled at the waitress and then told me about his day and shared a few humorous stories about what happened to him while I was gone.

I couldn't talk. What if Arthur remembered that night and knew I was serious? He was acting nicer than usual, and that's never good. How was he so god damn _calm?_

After we paid for our lunch, we walked out the door. He glanced at his watch. "Ah, where has the time gone?" He asked, tutting. "I really must be off. It's been lovely, Alfred."

I tried to force some words out of my mouth. Something like "Not as lovely as you." But of course the only thing that managed to stumble from my mouth was:

"Yeah, uh-huh."

Arthur smirked. He was standing quite still in front of me. He was analyzing me. I tried not to squirm.

Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me down. His lips smashed onto mine, and there I was, frozen in shock as some dude ravaged my lips.

He pulled back after he realized I was too flabbergasted to re-procreate the kiss.

I straightened up and shoved my glasses up my nose. "Wha-"

Arthur chuckled and shook his head. "I fancy you, Alfred."

A quick translation from British to American told me that Arthur just said he liked me. In _that _way.

I blushed up my ears, and Arthur laughed again.

"Will you go out with me, then?" Arthur asked.

"Uh...yeah...I mean, okay!"

Arthur pulled me down into another kiss, and this time I kissed back.

**So hey everyone! **

**I really like it when Al is a dork. **

**This was actually inspired by REAL LIFE! (What is that?) Recently I got a boyfriend and he acts just like Al does XD **

**So I hope you enjoyed, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	11. Don't have to try

America stared at England as he watered the roses in his garden. He walked around the bushes smoothly and gracefully.

America picked up the habit of watching England in the garden somewhere around mid-summer. The weather was so hot that England often opted to go top-less.

"Why are you sitting out here, Al?" England would ask, a hand on his hip and his eyebrow raised.

America just bit back a smile and shrugged. "Oh...I just like the view."

Luckily for him, England had never been very sharp when it came to anything sexual.

...or rather, unluckily.

All was well and good if America felt like dropping a sexual pun here or there. But in the bedroom, England's lack of sexual abilities were nagging.

"America~" England beckoned.

America grinned to his ears. It was late, England had downed a few drinks, and they were alone in the house.

England was lying on the bed, spread eagle. His shirt was gone, his hair was ruffled, and he was clad in only very tight jeans and...

...socks?

Now, when I say "socks" I don't mean a pair of white ankle socks. I mean _grandpa _socks. They had a little flamingo pattern printed on a green background. America frowned as his excitement died.

"Dude...why are you wearing socks?"

England rolled his eyes and sighed. "My feet get cold."

_Oh, of course. Your feet get cold. I wouldn't want your feet to be cold while we were FUCKING._

England seemed to sense the dying mood and tugged on America's shirt. "Come on, weren't we...in the middle of something?"

America shook the nasty thoughts from his head and let England take off his shirt (and almost half of his hair in the process.) Then he went to straddle the blonde, but he backed up and threw him a teasing look. He was on his knees, trying to be sultry. It wasn't that bad, and America began to smile again as the spirits of not only himself but something between his legs lifted.

England laid himself against the pillows and began licking his finger. But apparently he was trying too hard because he ended up pushing it so far in his mouth he gagged.

"Oh, dude, are you okay?" America asked, leaning over England, his arms on either side of the green-eyed nation's face.

England coughed on last time and nodded slightly. "Yes, fine. Perfectly fine."

"Do you want some water or something?"

England blushed. "America, I said I was _fine. _Let's just get on with it."

America smiled, and he took over the foreplay for the night.

…

A few days later America woke up early for no apparent reason. He made his stumbling way down the stairs, and into the kitchen. When he didn't see England sipping on a cup of tea and reading the paper, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Just how early was it? He began searching the house, but saw no sign of his lover.

He was about to give up hope in exchange for panic when a loud thump reverberated through the house.

America traced the sound to the basement. He wrenched open the heavy wooden door and squeaked down the old stairs. "Iggy?" He called.

The light was very dim, and he kept his eyes on his feet to avoid tripping. He only deemed it safe to look up when he had reached the end of the steps.

He was met with a rather lovely sight.

This sight just so happened to be England's ass.

The blonde was hunched over a table. Apparently he didn't feel the need to put on pants in suchearly hours of the morning, and his boxer-briefs did little to cover anything. America enjoyed the sight before he moved his eyes upwards.

England was wearing his jacket. _His jacket._

He didn't know why. He didn't know how long he had been wearing it. All that mattered was that he would _never take it off again _because America had never beheld anything more sexy.

But the cherry on top of it all, was England's smiling face as he muttered a few words here and there. America always had a weakness for British accents, but when England was happy his words seemed all that more beautiful.

America padded across the floor as quietly as possible and hooked his arms around England. The shorter nation squawked in surprise. "America! You idiot, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

America chuckled and nuzzled into England's hair. "Sorry Iggy but you looked totally hot."

England blew some bangs from his eyes and pouted (hot) "Don't call me that."

America flipped England around to get a better view of him, and backed him up against the table. "We should do it right here."

England spluttered. "Absolutely _not! _This room is for magic purposes only which you rudely interrupted previo-"

America sighed.

Why was England only ever sexy when he wasn't trying?

**I don't really like this one that much, but here you are.**

**This is for Dara, or FMAOHSHCwhateverherusername is.**

**She found my secret message on tumblr :)**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**


	12. Airplane

I tapped my foot to the beat of the _Sex Pistols. _The plane was supposed to take off soon, and I was trying to drown out the sounds of the whirring engine and the snappy flight attendant. My black headphones were pressing down on my green hair (which took forever to style) but it was worth the sanctuary. Besides, it looked like I'd be flying home alone. Again.

Just when I thought it was safe to push my head back against the window and rest my eyes, a clatter in the front of the plane broke through even my loud music. "Sorry!"

A lanky fellow, probably only in his twenties, like me, was making his way down the isle. How he managed to get that carry-on through security, I'll never know. It was bulging and clearly over the size limits.

I pitied the chap who had to sit with him.

Or I would have, but I'm not much for self-pity. Just my luck, the fool sat next to me with a grand American smile and crooked glasses that would be too big for an elephant. He must have a fondness for over-large things. "Hello there!" The man said as he sat down, trying to shove the bag under the seat in front of him. "My name is Alfred, but please, just call me Al. Are you from America or England? I'm super excited to get to go! England is pretty cool. Besides, this plane model is amazing! It has quintuple jets!"

I rolled my eyes. He couldn't be serious. His blonde hair was a mess, his glasses were still crooked and slipping even further down his nose, and worse still, he was wearing _slacks. _Slacks! I'll stick to skinny jeans and ripped tees, thank-you-very-much.

The idiot continued on rambling, and I tried my very best to ignore him and flow back into the punk and Gothic beats of my music.

It was easier said than done.

"Oh! We're taking off! I wonder how fast we'll be going? Probably somewhere around 130 knots, oh—not including the wind drag though."

When the flight attendant started adding to the noise I lost my patience. "Will you please, _shut it?_" I snapped. "I could care less about the plane and how very smart you are. Spare me, please."

The oaf had the decency to look shocked and humble for a moment. But he ruined it by breaking into a sunny smile. "So you _are _English! If you don't want to talk about planes, we can talk about something else. You seem to like music, watcha listening to?"

I clutched my Ipod tighter in my hand. "Nothing you would be interested in," I quipped.

Albert, or Alfo, or whatever his name is, paid no mind to my words or personal space as he plucked the ipod from my hand and unlocked it after two tries. "Oh, the Sex Pistols! Nice band, I like them."

I gave him a growl as I snatched back my music player. "How did you unlock it?"

The blonde American shrugged. "Simple, I saw you type in the last two numbers, and from there it was a simple angle trajectory estimate based on the positioning of your thumb and the way you hold the device. Nice hands, by the way."

I wasn't sure whether to be creeped out because he had been watching my actions so closely he could calculate the angle of my thumb, or because he complimented my hands. I chose the first one. "Why were you paying such a mind to my Ipod?"

He shrugged with a small smile. "I wasn't, but I have photographic memory."

So that explained his intelligence. What a cheat.

As the plane ride egged on and the wings spread out to an even keel, I found that my music had been pushed away in favor of the American accent babbling about some numbers or his life. I was astounded my our seemingly never-ending common interests. Especially in the works of Edgar Allen Poe. He recited the entire first paragraph of _The Raven _without a single mistake. I know, because I memorized it myself. (But I didn't use a special memory to do it.)

By the time the possibly longest flight of my life was over, I had a certain fondness in my heart for Alfred F. Jones, the nineteen-year-old Harvard grad who never once commented on my many tattoos and piercings. His eyes stayed glued to mine, and not my crazy hair. He even insisted on calling me "Artie" instead of my preferred "Kirkland" because "Artie is way cooler anyway."

When he managed to get both himself and his over-sized carry on off the plane, I grabbed his arm. "Oi, Alfred. Where...well, where are you staying?"

Alfred shrugged. "Dunno. I was hoping on catching a little hotel near the museum, why?"

I smiled a bit. "How about you bunk with me? I have a flat in the heart of London, and I have quite the comfortable couch.

And that is how an airplane ride changed my life.

**Hello! **

**I tried to stay away from the USUK stereotypes on this one. I dressed Arthur in casual clothes while Alfred was in slacks, I made Alfie the nerd, and I even gave Artie the cool-guy personality! Of course, there were still quite a few norms, but for the most part it was fine.**

**This was done for a school project. (Of course the end was cut out XD)**

**Hope you enjoyed, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**


	13. Get Back To Base

The thick, cigar-smoking man in front of the unevenly chopped desk in the corner of the tent stared at Arthur across the stacks of papers. "Why's a Brit asking about an American troop?" He drawled, the end of the cigar dipping out of his mouth.

Arthur felt the back of his throat quiver. "I have a friend."

The man stared at him, and swished the cigar to the other side of his stubble covered chin. His jaw moved slowly, but his lips were even slower as he said the words Arthur dreaded. "They're probably dead. We haven't heard from them."

Arthur felt hope rip out of his chest and dissipate into the air. He didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded, his bangs drawing in front of his red-rimmed eyes like curtains.

The moment he left the graying tent, he felt the sob tear through his throat.

Alfred was dead. Alfred was dead.

The sentence played in his mind like a badly busted record. People were staring at him from their posts or tents, but none approached the well-decorated Brit sobbing in an American base.

….

The weather grew gray with Arthur's mood. Rain settled in, and most of the soldiers learned to leave the blonde to himself and the drizzle of rain on canvas. He became stern and set. Before, he was compassionate and willing to hear all of the others complaints. He did his best to console his team when there was a time of loss.

They were not the best at returning the favor.

It had been a full two months and Arthur commanded as if he had never sat of a bed with a sobbing eighteen-year-old who entered the war far too early. His green eyes stared through the war-torn faces of young boys. "Four more laps!" He would scream when approached with fatigue.

One rainy Monday came and turned the stone of a man into sand. "Master Sergeant, a message."

Arthur nodded to the man, and snatched the paper from him. "Dismissed," he quipped, unfolding the paper.

It was a telegram from the American's base. It only had a three word message, but it turned Arthur's stomach and turned his rock-hard expression into a spot-lit show of emotion.

_I am alive_

_-Alfred_

Arthur couldn't get to the base fast enough.

He had to wait two days. Two days of complete and utter anticipation. He didn't give orders. Hell, it was amazing he even managed to eat. His subordinates were only happy for a break. Once he had clearance, Arthur hopped in a truck and closed the few miles between himself and what he thought was a dead man.

The American base was as crowded and disorganized as ever. People seemed far more upbeat than usual. This was a good sign.

Arthur pushed soldier after soldier out of the way, looking for the tell-tale glint of glasses and that gleaming smile he longed for.

It was neither of these things that led him to the man, though. It was the laugh. The clearly defined laugh that pierced through all other noise and dove into Arthur's ears like a child into his bed on a particularly cold night.

"Alfred!"

The man turned. Blue eyes, blonde hair, that crisp tanned skin. Then Arthur had his arms wrapped around him and tears spilled from his eyes. "You're alive! You're alive!"

He felt his knees give out, and Alfred sank to the ground with him. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, tugging him closer, a-midst the many confused soldiers. All they saw was their General holding a sobbing Brit in the middle of an American base.

**Just a little something inspired by a picture.**


	14. Here Comes The Sun

Alfred snuggled further into his bomber jacket. The snow crunched under his boots, and the frames of his glasses were probably going to freeze to his face anytime soon. He was waiting for the bus, but he was never really patient. Especially not in the Winter. Alfred F. Jones wasn't anything if he didn't hate the cold. Thanks, but no thanks, he'll stick to the pools and barbeque's in the Summer.

He looked down the gray road, willing the bus to appear. Of course, it didn't, and his toes seemed to get even colder. Maybe they'd fall off soon.

Everything was gray. The sky, the snow, and especially the puffs his breath made. He was beginning to believe that his skin was turning gray. Yeah, it was totally gray. That tan he'd worked on all Summer was probably totally gone because of stupid Winter and the stupid cold.

A rumbling sound in the distance made Alfred's head snap up. The gray bus was rolling slowly towards the barren stop, and Alfred felt sweet relief come over him. It's like the bus was the sun itself. It came to a loud, hissing stop, and the doors creaked open. Warm air rushed out onto Alfred's now burning cheeks. Oh, he was never going outside again! He clambered on the bus and shoved a few gray coins into the slot. The doors were yanked shut behind him, and the bus started rolling.

It jerked Alfred forward, into the seat nearest the driver. He didn't really mind, it was warm, and he was never getting up again. He settled himself into the gray seat, and so happened to glance over his shoulder as he did so.

He was met with _color. _Brilliant, fantastic color that shone green like Summer. Alfred couldn't rip his eyes away from it.

The color was contained by the man next to him, in his eyes, specifically. He wore a friendly, open expression that made his wonderful eyes widen. "Sorry about the bus driver," the blonde man said, stretching his neck to rest his chin outside of his scarf. "He's a bit fast at times."

If voices had colors, Alfred swore this one would be rich warm green. And plus, it had an English accent. Alfred had a thing for English accents. "You ride the bus a lot?"

The man nodded, his chin dipping down into the scarf for a mere second. "Yes, almost everyday to work. I'm an English teacher at APH University."

Alfred nodded. "You're pretty young to be a professor."

The man simply laughed, leaning back in the gray seat. Everyone else on the bus was quiet, hunching into their seats. But the professor was open and friendly and his laugh sounded like the color of cream. "I'm twenty seven, I'm not so very young."

"Well you're not old either."

Arthur smiled slightly, the left corner of his red lips quirking upwards. "Well, it's far time I introduced myself. My name is Arthur Kirkland, it's a pleasure."

Alfred took the hand Arthur offered, and took note of the firm grip as he shook it. "Alfred F. Jones."

Their hands fell, and Alfred felt incredibly warm. But he didn't think it was because of the bus. "Hey, Arthur...I know this seems really sudden, since I just got your name, but...can I have your number?"

Arthur's fabulously green eyes widened, and his lips parted in a cartoon-ish 'O'. Then he smiled. "Only if I can have yours."

**Some Notes:**

**I think Arthur is very friendly and open on good days, and he's not always a grouchy old man. When it comes to strangers, he talks a lot and is very open. But once he gets to know you he prefers to listen. That's also when his angry side will make an appearance. **

**Also, I gave Arthur a firm handshake because in my eyes, he's not a weakling. He's actually quite strong. He is a nation, after all.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	15. Inked

America wasn't sure why it surprised him so much. He just didn't expect it, at all. England, his sweet cute blushing little England had a _tattoo. _Just so we're clear—this wasn't a heart or a little star under his ear. It was a huge red six-string guitar that ran up his hip and over part of his abdomen.

"Holy shit," America whispered. He ran his hand over it, as if expecting to feel a difference in England's skin.

The nation glared at him from his position on the couch. They'd been...in the middle of something. America had only just started dating England a month ago, and they were getting to _that _part of the relationship. Not sex, but... "exploring" as England said. "Yes, I have a tattoo. Can we not make a big deal of it?"

America ran his hand up the neck of the guitar, and England's blush deepened. "This is fucking hot, England." America was still staring. Why didn't they do this sooner? This was quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. "When did you...?"

"The sixties," England breathed, pulling America back into their kiss. "Now please just get _on _with it."

…

**This wasn't anything big, just a friendly reminder that England has a tattoo. It says so in Marukaite Chikyuu. **

**I'm working on a story for creative writing, so short little snippets like this might become a thing until it's done. **


	16. It's Time

Alfred didn't feel it. There wasn't a tug, or even the slightest pinch of pain. He just...closed his eyes. In fact, it was so subtle that he didn't even realize it at first. One minute he was in a hospital bed, grasping the metal rail tightly and watching tears roll off his cheeks, and the next thing he knew he was surrounded by blue and white. The ground was fluffy, but it didn't feel like it was there at all. There was nothing else in what could only be called space around him.

There was no clouds in the baby blue sky, no sun, and no stars. Everything seemed to glow in a hazy light on it's own. He shifted uncomfortably on the foggy ground.

That's when it hit him.

Alfred F. Jones was dead. At the age of Ninety-Five, Alfred F. Jones passed away quickly. He imagined his obituary. He had no family left. His dear twin had died last year. His mother and Father were long passed, and all of his friends had been quite older than him. He'd lived out his last few years talking to the nurses that cared for him and his failing heart. Alfred looked down at his chest. Something was strange. He was taller, standing a straight as the soldier he once was. His hair was flopped across his forehead, not balding away from his eyes. And it was blonde! Alfred gave a little excited squeal as he examined his hands. They were thick and strong, without a single wrinkle on them. He touched his face—smooth as a baby's bottom. His glasses shrunk down to little half-frames.

He gave a little hop of energy and excitement when he realized what he was wearing. It was his bomber jacket! His precious bomber jacket was brand-spanking new and gleaming in proud glory. All of the patches were still attached, and when he checked the right pocket, there was the handkerchief.

_The handkerchief._

He held it close to his heart and took a deep breath. He couldn't believe it. The most important person in all of the world had given this to him, and here it was in his hand once more. It had little roses adorning the sides of the white linen. It was simple and girlish, but Alfred held it dearer to him than his jacket. When he'd separated from it, he knew that he wouldn't be able to hold something so precious again.

Because it was supposed to be in Arthur's grave.

Arthur had died ten years before. They'd been together for sixty years. But Arthur was old, and tired, and one morning he simply didn't wake up. Alfred thought he'd never stop crying.

At the memory of the worst day of his life, tears picked his eyes. He stared at that little piece of cloth.

"Don't cry, you idiot."

He could almost hear Arthur now. He was standing in the kitchen, and Arthur had one hand busy with a tea pot, and the other resting on his hip while he gave Alfred his most sarcastic look. He was chastising him for something or another, but Alfred didn't really care.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, look at me."

Alfred began to fold the little handkerchief, pressing the edges ever so lightly before tucking it back into his pocket. He wiped away the tears from his eyes and looked up.

Arthur was in front of him.

He looked about twenty years old, his thick blonde hair sticking out in strange angles. His eyebrows were titled down, his pink lips in a small caring smile, and his beautiful never-aging green eyes staring at Alfred with the most loving look the American had ever beheld.

"Hello, love."

Alfred's mouth dropped open, and he grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and tugged him close. He wrapped his arms around his young, nostalgic figure, and began to sob all over again.

He was _warm. _He was _solid. _He was _real._

"I missed you so much!" Alfred cried squeezing Arthur desperately.

Hands were at his face, wiping tears and cradling cheeks. There were lips at his ear, whispering sweet words of comfort. They moved to his lips, and they stiffled Alfred's sobs with kissing, and Alfred had never felt so wonderful in his whole life.

"I love you, I love you, I love you so much."

**This is as close to a tragedy as I will ever get.**

**I think I'm crying.**

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

**-Mallory**


	17. Before My Time

**This is a prequel to the previous chapter.**

Arthur couldn't make tea anymore. It was starting to hurt now. Before it was just a quiet and calm acceptance, people get old, and just like the treasured family pet, they die and the rest of the people must move on.

Though, unlike the family pet, people can talk, and Arthur enjoyed talking. He spent hours coddled in Alfred's arms, stroking his ancient face and reminiscing about the good times and the bad times. He told Alfred all of the things he'd ever thought, every last detail of his life.

Alfred held onto every word. He loved Arthur like one loved life. He knew that Arthur didn't have much time left. He couldn't walk. His lungs were weak and his teeth were ground to half of what they once were. He was simply old—and it hurt to see him in this state.

Every morning Alfred would sit up slowly in bed, crack his back, and shuffle to the kitchen. He'd make Arthur's tea and his own coffee, and then he'd return to find his lover just stirring. There wasn't ever breakfast, Arthur didn't have an appetite in the morning. Or...ever.

This morning was different, though. Arthur didn't touch his tea. Instead he cradled the warm sides in his decrepit hands and stared into the brown murk. "Alfred, you know I love you, right?"

Alfred nodded, and pressed a kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I do, and I love you too."

Arthur nodded, though he didn't seem satisfied with that answer.

The day continued on as their days normally did. They read a book together, had a light lunch, and discussed fairy tales. Alfred turned on a sports game during dinner. Then Arthur was already yawning, the sun barely set. Alfred pulled him into his arms and spread the sheets over them. He coddled him and whispered words into his ear until he fell asleep, and a small time afterward.

The next morning, when Alfred woke up, Arthur was cold and he wouldn't wake up.

He didn't cry immediately. He didn't cry as the doctors pronounced him dead. He didn't even cry at the funeral where his few remaining friends tried to comfort him.

It was weeks later, when he awoke to an empty bed. A month later when he started making tea and then realized that it would only go to waste. He stopped reading books, drinking coffee, and watching sports. He slept on the couch. Anything that reminded him of Arthur was avoided like a plague.

When Matthew died, Alfred moved into an Old Folks Home.

It was easier to forget there. The nurses were nice and open, but they weren't Arthur. They weren't Francis, or Gilbert, or Matthew.

It was in that Home that Alfred realized he wanted to die. He was tired of hurting—both physically and mentally, and he wanted it to end. He spent all of his time remembering the happy memories. He couldn't make any new ones. It was then that Alfred F. Jones died.

Months later, the man on the hospital bed died too.

**I'm sorry for all the depressing stuff lately, guys! I promise to write something sweet and fluffy soon. And if you read Greensleeves, I'm updated soon as well.**

**Requested by PirateKirkland17**

**Sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	18. The Gay And The Chicken

**For those of you who don't know what Gay Chicken is:**

**It's a game often played by teenage boys, or sometimes teenage girls. The goal of the game is to go further with a person of the same sex than the other person with you. Most of the time people's faces get very close together before someone "chickens" out, but occasionally you'll get a peck or be felt-up.**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was absolutely positive he'd win this game. He'd sworn at the age of five years old that he'd beat Alfred at something, and god dammit, he meant it! But athletic, charismatic, friendly, kind, _perfect _Al had gone and won _everything._

This competition had been going on for eleven years now. The blonde duo were constantly seen around their high school, having thumb wars or paper football tournaments. After school they'd rush home for a go at a game of soccer, or a race in Alfred's pool. Anything was a competition. _But Arthur couldn't win._

Until this very moment. This was the moment he was sure to win, because this was a game perfect for him. What was the game, you ask?

Gay chicken. And Arthur Kirkland was indeed very gay. It was like the fates had brought this moment to the basement, and the circle both his and Alfred's many friends sat in. You could still hear the bass of the music from the party upstairs, but Gilbert's basement was silent.

This was not a cliché game like Truth Or Dare, but the ultimate of all party games. Guaranteed entertainment. And to make things even better, Alfred and Arthur were up next, and everyone was on the edge of their seats with excitement. This would be a long round, these two did not give up easily.

The blonde duo edged their way to the middle of the circle to sit cross-legged for all to see. It was Kiku who was to be the referee, and he stood to start the game.

"Alright," he began in a solemn voice, "I think this is the moment we have all been waiting for. Remember, you two. If you want to Chicken just pull back. Alfred, you start."

Kiku stepped back, and Alfred leaned forward. Arthur watched his face edge closer and closer to his own. He wasn't uncomfortable at all. This was Alfred, and he wasn't exactly unattractive. Arthur could hear the thump of the bass change with the song, but it remained quiet in the basement. Alfred's throat was working to swallow. Arthur blinked.

Now Alfred's forehead was touching his. He was feverish, or more probably blushing. Arthur wouldn't be able to tell, though, because all he could see was the blue of Alfred's irises as he peeped over his glasses. Their hair was intertwining as Alfred shifted in his place.

Yet still Arthur did not pull back. He would win this game, he would finally win a game.

Arthur watched his friend take a deep breath. He leaned in, and pressed one quick peck to Arthur's lips. It happened so fast Arthur had barely time to register the feeling, let alone compute it.

But to win, Alfred would have to keep going. So he exhaled a little and kissed Arthur again.

This time, Arthur could definitely feel it. It was a nice, familiar feeling. The room was roaring with bets and yells and hoots of excitement, but Arthur wasn't listening. He was focusing on those lips. He'd thought about doing something like this before, with Alfred. Who hasn't?

But now that he was, he wasn't sure what to make of the pleasant feeling clawing up his back. Alfred began to press harder. The hoots had turned to screams of pure amazement, but the blondes didn't care. They had a game to win. And Arthur was going to win. So he switched up his role of the accept-ee, and instead slipped his tongue over his lips to lick over Alfred's.

Al let out a slightly muffled yelp at the contact. Somewhere in the basement, Gilbert was in hysterics and laughter, yelling: "Tongue! Good ol' Artie! Fucking tongue, guys!"

Alfred opened his mouth. If he wanted to win, he'd have to accept it. His eyes were squeezed shut and his arms were drawn close to his sides. He looked like the most ridiculous thing to ever kiss anyone. Arthur had trouble kissing through the smile. But somehow he managed, and Kiku was calling that Alfred had to advance if he wanted to win.

The basement was roaring so loudly as people jumped around and grabbed and pointed at each other, they couldn't believe it. With a moments hesitation, Alfred loosened his stiff arms from his sides and grabbed Arthur's shoulders. He pulled him close, though that might be too sweet of a term to describe it correctly. He nearly smashed the air out of Arthur's lungs as their chests collided. He held him awkwardly, with pointed elbows and clenched hands. But he held him, and that was a problem. Arthur licked across Alfred's tongue to buy more time. He needed to do something that would definitely make Alfred quit. The blonde was clinging to those eleven years like a starving man to a cracker. He needed to win this. So with a quick, practiced twist of his arms, Arthur broke the kiss for a moment. Alfred thought he'd won, and was just about to catch his breath when fabric was pulled over his head.

Alfred was shirtless. He looked down at himself, completely starstruck. A few people who'd been watching collapsed in complete disbelief. Arthur smirked. He'd done it, he'd won! He breathed a long sigh as the notion of the win calculated. Eleven years. He began to fully smile when

_riiiiiip._

Alfred tore his shirt open. Arthur looked down at the green shirt he'd been wearing only moments before, in two pieces clenched in Alfred's hands. Alfred was looking at them too, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"Something else, Arthur! You need to do something else to win!" Kiku screamed. Kiku,_screaming! _This was a truly serious game.

Arthur reached up to his friend's face, ripped off his glasses, and threw them to the Asian referee. He then proceeded to launch himself at Alfred, curling his legs around his back and kissing him madly.

Alfred couldn't take it anymore. He pushed Arthur off of him, stood up, and gawked there without a shirt, as the whole room went silent.

Arthur looked up at him from where he'd been sprawled on the dirty floor. "Did…did I win?"

Alfred reached up to push his own hair back, his muscles moving as he did so. Arthur took great notice of them. Alfred blew a long breath out of his nose, and then looked right at Arthur. "I…think you did. You won, Arthur."

The entire basement erupted in cheers. If not for Arthur, than for the best round of gay chicken Earth had ever hosted. Gilbert hoisted Arthur up, and thumped him on his bare back. "Congrats, Artie."

Arthur began to smile and many more people offered their congratulations. He stared around at all of them, nodding a eventually laughing. He'd finally, really done it! Even if Francis kept accusing him of cheating because "you cannot play gay chicken if you are already gay!"

In the end, however, Francis still had to admit Arthur had some backbone, and took him (and everyone in the basement) upstairs for a drink.

The music was loud and everyone was oblivious to what had just happened. (Though, Arthur supposed, they probably wouldn't remain that way long.) Arthur accepted only water from the Frenchman before going to find somewhere quiet to calm his racing heart. The adrenaline rush was still in his veins.

He finally found a quiet porch to take refuge on. It was dark and cold outside, but it was quiet and beautiful. Arthur leaned across the railing at stared at the lawn full of cars. Only a few people were having sex in them.

A door opened behind Arthur, and soon the very man he'd just ravaged walked up to lean next to him. "Hey, Artie," he whispered. It seemed like a sin to break the peace outside of the party.

"Hello, Al," Arthur said with a nod.

The blonde man quirked a smile. "Congrats, again, on your win."

"I don't recall you ever congratulating me before."

A laugh. "I was a little distracted, man."

Arthur chuckled softly and turned back towards the quiet parking lot. Alfred shifted beside him, and again drew a hand through his hair. "Uh, Artie…" he started. "Would, uh, now be a bad time to…uh…come out of the closet?"

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed! Hopefully this lifted the mood from the last two chapters.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	19. Blue Is For Sorrow

When England first saw the little boy, he didn't know what to think. He was very obviously _one of them, _not a human child. He thought about just grabbing the kid and running. It wouldn't be hard, the cowlick at the top of the boy's head barely reached his knee. However, England made the mistake of looking the little boy in the eye. His eyes held such a bright, brilliant openness to them that England could not tear himself away, nor could he bear to hurt them, to make them well up with tears.

They were a beautiful blue, sure, but it was the life in them that made England's jaw weigh twenty times heavier than it usually did.

England never expected what those eyes would do to him, over the course of time.

It came to be that the darling little boy, who's name was apparently "America," came into England's care. He was full of far more surprises than England had first anticipated, such as having seemingly no fear of giant monsters. Or the fact that he could approach these giant beasts, grab them with his two tiny hands, and swing them around for his own amusement.

Thinking back, England should have expected something sooner.

But those eyes entranced him. The iris was constantly moving, bubbling and changing, just as life itself. The dark around the rims varied, and one moment they were as light as the morning sky, and the next they were as cold as the ocean at night. It was their precise instability that made all the other changes far more comfortable. When it was revealed that America was indeed very afraid of all things supernatural, England welcomed the child to sleep in the protection of shared blankets.

But with the changing eyes came another sort of change, one that left them both a little distant and broken. England had to leave.

"No, no don't go! I'll miss you! This place is too big for me to be all alone!"

England stared down at his darling America, those beautiful eyes. He wasn't sure if he liked the eyes or not. They were too quick to change. England couldn't decide if he liked their hue before they changed to a different shade. Now, however, it was the boy's expression that gripped his heart, and England bent down and pulled the poor thing in a long hug. "I'll be back soon, I promise," England whispered, fully intending to keep to his word.

He never did.

When he returned, time had passed. It wasn't so much time as to be called "long," nor was it enough to qualify as the promised "short." But it was time, and in those missing moments, England was haunted by the thing that awaited him.

America was not America any more. He was still smiling the same, he held his (rather large) body the same way. He even greeted England with the same excitement, though his voice sounded the smallest bit strange. Like his words were lazy and drawn.

But his eyes.

They did not hold the familiarity the rest of America did. They did not shimmer as the used to. Instead, they stared. They bore into England's chest, accusing him of breaking his promise, of not loving America, that all his fears were true.

But as America didn't say it, England didn't comment on it. They tried to pick up where they'd left off.

"America, please just try it on! You're dressing like a pauper, and that's so unbecoming for a fit boy like you! Show some pride for my colony!"

America's body didn't change at the words, he remained in his indifferent stance, but England saw the flash in his eyes. Pure emotion, anger, fear, sadness, they all danced through the blue like words in a play. England swallowed thickly, and was glad America didn't put up too much of a protest in putting on the suit.

He looked quite appealing in it, but he did not look pleased with himself, or at all happy. And England was far too busy thinking of those eyes, that neither of them made much conversation until dinner. (In which, surprisingly, America did not take part in with his usual gusto.)

So, as it seemed, England was expecting the fight. A tiny skirmish, really. America had started it. Not that it really mattered. But he made a little, barely noticeable snap at England's clothes. And England took the bait. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for a chance to yell. He wanted to ask why America's eyes were saying things the boy was not. He wanted to cry and scream and throw tantrums until he got his little brother back.

But when America yelled back at him, he knew his little brother was gone.

They tried to get along after that. They really did try to apologize. But it was too late. They had already given up, in their heart of hearts. America provoked England constantly, and a few times England even instigated something.

And before they knew it, they were at war.

Looking across the battlefield, England decided that he didn't like America's eyes. He didn't like how they showed things that are better hidden. He hated how even now they glinted with life. He hated how they were but the gravestone of his little brother.

When America charged him, he stood no chance. England had a firm stance and plenty of time for preparation. America was sliding through the mud, but kept on charging like the brute he was. England brought up his gun, and America's musket was blown from his hands. It clattered to the ground.

"Load!" An unimportant man in America's unimportant military shouted.

It was too late. The barrel was at America's forehead. It would take a single shot, and America was defenseless.

However, England made the mistake of looking the little boy in the eye. His eyes held such a bright, brilliant openness to them that England could not tear himself away, nor could he bear to hurt them, to make them well up with tears.

"Dammit," England cried, his knees going weak. "Damn you." He fell to the mud, ground rushing up at him in cold reality.

The eyes looked down at him. England knew, he could feel them. He looked up. America's face was full of hatred, of scorn and the most bitter of any emotion.

But his eyes were full of love, of the most pleading look, begging for some forgiveness, assurance, welcome.

England should have expected that it was not the last time he saw The United States Of America.

* * *

**There's some symbolism in here. The argument that started their failing relationship was the Boston Massacre. America made a snappish comment about England's clothes- AKA the Americans calling the Brits "Lobster Backs."**

**America's eyes represent the feelings of the American citizens, except the very last scene where the roles are reversed. America becomes the people, because he becomes independent, but his insides are still him.**

**Done for symbolism practice! Tell me how I did!**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	20. Kiss It Away

***Note: In America, plasters are called band-aids or bandages.**

Arthur didn't always follow the rules. He was seven (and one quarter!) years old. He didn't have to do _everything _his mom said. When she said to clean up, he usually just pushed everything under the bed. Arthur also had a bad habit of stealing licks of icing from unfinished cakes or watching things he wasn't supposed to on the telly.

But his mother had one rule he made sure to follow no matter what, and that was to be a gentleman. So when the boy fell off the swing he rushed across the playground as quick as he could on his big-kid legs.

The boy was blonde, with a weird piece of hair that stuck up from the rest, and blue eyes that were blinking back tears. He was probably only six, which is way less than seven and one quarter.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked, bending down to the boy. Wind tousled their hair as the kid looked up with a brave face.

"Yeah! I'm totally fine, it doesn't even hurt." The little boy sat up straighter and examined his elbow. There was a rough scratch that was oozing crimson. At the sight of it, the boy paled. "Oh, god," he croaked. "It's bleeding. I'm bleeding!"

Arthur recognized the chance to be the totally cool older kid he knew he was, and he decided to remain calm. He got on his knees and grabbed the boy's arm, tugging it to look at the cut. "Oh," he gasped, nodding at the wound. "I see..."

The little boy on the ground stared at him with widened blues. "Is it bad?"

Arthur brought it closer to his face. It looked like any other cut to him, but the little boy didn't know that. So instead, Arthur stood up, and pulled the blonde with him. "We better get this to your mum. I'll take you. Where is she?"

The blonde boy sniffled and pointed towards a lady on a bench, reading a thick novel in the shade of an oak. Arthur nodded determinedly and navigated across the mulch, all the while keeping a steady hold of the poor victim. When they reached the woman, she looked up kindly from he book. She had big red lips that pulled up into a heat-shaped smile and delicate hands that folded over the page, to save her place. Her heart-shaped smile dropped, however, when she saw her son's expression.

"Alfred! What happened?"

The little blonde boy, who was apparently called Alfred, sniffed one last time. "I fell off the swings."

His mother clucked her tongue and turned towards her purse. She started to dig through it. "I told you not to go on them, Alfie." She brought out a SpongeBob band-aid, which Arthur thought was really cool. The woman only seemed to notice Arthur when she tried to put the bandage on Alfred's arm, only to find a pale hand wrapped just above it.

"And who are you?" She asked.

Arthur remembered his manners, and dropped Alfred's arm to hold out his hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he recited, "it is a pleasure."

The woman's heart returned as she took Arthur's hand with her delicate fingers and shook it up and down. "I'm Mrs. Jones. Thank you for taking care of my Alfie."

Alfred blushed. "Mom! Don't call me that!"

The woman shook her head with a quirky smile and pulled the bandage over Alfred's arm. Then she brushed down his hair and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "All better," she declared. "Now go have fun with your new friend."

With that, the woman returned to her new book, and left the children to their own devices. Arthur was quick to act. He grabbed Alfred's arm once more, and pulled him towards the playground. Alfred's mum said they were friends, so Arthur simply _had _to take him to the super-secret hiding place. It was under the slide, and in-between the wooden planks that supported the bridge. It was completely obscured, and it even had a roof! Arthur thought it was the best place to play, but his older brothers didn't like to play.

"Where are we going?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, and shoved Alfred under the slide. He followed right behind, and they both crouched in the shaded, cool place under the playground.

"We're friends, right?" Arthur asked.

Alfred nodded without hesitation.

Arthur smiled, and scooted closer to Alfred. He bent down and pecked a quick kiss to his cheek.

He then straightened up very quickly, and almost hit his head on the rough planks above them.

"That was to make your boo-boo better," Arthur explained quickly.

Alfred pouted. "Nuh-uh. You're supposed to kiss the part that hurts."

Arthur huffed, and then grasped Alfred's wrist, jerking up his arm to place a rushed peck to the yellow band-aid.

After that, Alfred and Arthur were very best friends, and in a few years, Alfred's lips would start to hurt as well.

**Cuties! **

**I was in a fluffy mood today. **

**To PirateKirkland17: Don't think I forgot about your request! I'm still working on it.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	21. Green Is For Compassion

For a time, America's favorite color was green. He liked the pretty textures of the leaves in summer. He liked how the pond, when sat too still for long would be coated with the green fuzz that reminded him of the lush velvet of the curtains in the study.

But mostly, he loved green because that was the color of England's eyes. Each morning, he would wake up in his big brother's arms and watch as his eyes blinked open, and a brilliant smile crushed his cheeks. America would copy the smile and grasp England's shirt and cry:

"G'mornin' England!"

To which England would dutifully reply:

"Good morning, poppet."

Then they would start about their day. England often holed himself up in the study, to sift through papers that America thought were dull and incomprehensible. But America would drag in his toy soldiers and play with them until England was not preoccupied.

Then he would spend the last few hours of the day staring at the lovely green of his most favorite person in the world.

Until England left. The nation had promised to come back soon, but with each passing day America was reminded that the promise had still not been kept. But America kept faith that England would return soon. That England would come teach him to fire a musket and deal with his people and do all the things he told him he'd do.

He never did.

When England returned, America no longer thought of green as a beautiful color, but an ugly one. One that was perfect for describing the sin of envy, one that was the color of mold and sickness. When England returned with a plastered smile on his face that didn't move his cheeks, America looked upon the eyes with horrible distaste.

But they tried to go back to normal.

It was hard to pretend that England had not been gone for such a very long time when America was suddenly bigger than he. It was hard when England offered to teach America how to use a gun, only to find that the boy was a wonderful shot. Each day was a reminder of England's lies.

It all came down to the day that America made a little snap at England's clothing. He was tired of England doting on him, dressing him in uncomfortable suits and pretending like he was still a child.

"Would you just stop buying all of this!" America yelled, pushing away the coat England was holding out to him. "I don't wanna wear your stupid stuff! I don't wanna look like you!"

England's arms fell limply to his sides, and suddenly his eyes burned with anger. America steeled himself for what was to come.

"I'm just trying to help you! You're such a prat these days! An irresponsible, cruel, and fake little _prat!_"

America tore the jacket from England's hands and threw it to the ground. He focused on those eyes, trying to see the beauty in them he had before, but he saw only anger. America felt something inside himself snap, as if England's eyes pressed a button inside himself. When America spoke again, it was quiet. But his voice came out strangely. His tongue didn't roll the vowels the way it should have. His words were flatter, more relaxed, and steaming with anger.

"Leave me alone."

After that, they stopped pretending that things were normal.

Before they had time to forgive and forget, they were at war. With each other. Green and blue.

It was long, it was harsh, and America knew he would never forget it. He was tested every day. Each time he saw England, he tried to get closer, to tear him down. But he never could. The eyes were too distant.

Until the day in the rain. America saw his chance. He held his musket tightly, and charged. England stood ready, but he didn't care. He needed to see those eyes again. To tell them how much he hated them. To hurt them, break them, make them dim so they wouldn't be so damn bright across the murky battlefield.

England's arm jutted up quickly. America was too distracted to react, and his musket was torn from his grip as it splashed into the mud a meter behind him. He was breathing heavily, but England was calm as he pointed the barrel of the gun at his head.

America heard his soldier shout behind him. His muscles tensed. His frown deepened. He stared up at England.

Water dripped off the edge of his nose. But his expression was breaking. He looked like a man that had lost everything. A man who's heart had been stolen from him bit by bit. A man who couldn't keep his promise.

Maybe it was the war that had matured America. Maybe it was just time. But when he looked at England he felt compassion for the first time in years. And when England turned those sad, regret-filled green eyes on him...

He remembered what his favorite color was.

* * *

**Sequel to "Blue Is For Sorrow"**

**Requested by PirateKirkland17.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	22. Puppy Love

America had never been graceful. In fact, he was a complete klutz. Which wouldn't have been so bad, had he not possessed an extremely immense amount of strength. But England somehow managed to pick up every cracked pot, ruined flower garden, and nightstand. (That had been a rough night.)

But now, this was ridiculous! America was a grown man and he still bumped around his house, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Sometimes England wondered if America even had full control of his body. Sometimes England confirmed that America did indeed have absolutely no control of his body.

"Really, America," England huffed, wrapping a bandage around the Nation's finger. "You say _I'm _bad at cooking. At least I don't cut off my finger every time I try to cut a tomato!"

America chewed on his bottom lip before reply. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered.

England finished wrapping America's wound and let his hand go. They were leaning over the kitchen counter. It was autumn, the windows were wide open and the air was cool. America's smile was abright reminder of summer. "But before you go back to _boringly _reading and stuff, I need a kiss!"

England sputtered. "You will have no reward for idiocy! Now get back to making lunch. I'm hungry."

America laughed, turning back to the counter. "Alright, alright. Jeez, I try to be a nice guy..."

England turned to walk back to the couch, when America's hand tugged him back. America had tricked him! Well, technically he did it every time, but for some reason it caught England off guard each time he did it. America wrapped his arms around England, and pressed a quick peck to his lips before letting him go.

"It's all better now!"

England blushed all the way back to his book.

It was after dinner, when the boys went out to the yard to start raking up the leaves. Or, England was raking. America was running around, attempting to get the neighbor's dog to chase him. The dog had to be as old as England, because it looked like it could have died right there on the driveway, and was _not _going anywhere anytime soon.

"America, grow up and help me rake," England called, a hand on his hip.

America realized the dog was not interested, and hopped over to his lover. He got within two feet before he slipped on some loose leaves and fell face-first into the pile that had taken England an hour to form.

"Alfred!" England roared.

America merely came up giggling, brushing some leaves from his hair. "Aw, it was just an accident." He pouted, and then reached up and grabbed England's arm. "Come join me!"

England squawked on the way down, landing on America's chest.

"Unhand me this instant!"

America laughed, and threw a handful of leaves at England.

England retaliated with a handful of leaves, and by the end of the hour, the raking had not gotten done.

England had to admit, that though America's clumsiness was annoying, he wouldn't be the same. Everything America did, pushed England's heart a little farther. Every morning, he'd open his eyes, hold England a bit tighter and say:

"Hello, darling."

It was those morning that England was reminded how lovely they complimented each other. When America was shivering in march, next to England who was in shorts and sandals. Or when he called him at three in the morning because "I totally forgot about the time difference! Sorry, dude!"

That night, England was reminded of another reason he loved America. He had absolutely no control of his body.

* * *

**Sorry, no smut for you! I'm terrible with smut hides**

**But to clarify, they did fuck. ;)**

**Anyway, this was inspired by the song "I do adore you" by Mindy Glendhill. **

**Thanks for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	23. We Take Things Slow

**Warning: de la bad words**

**Arthur's POV**

* * *

Alfred has been my roommate for a while now. I have to admit, the guy isn't half as bad as I originally thought he was. In fact, he's almost bearable. When I had first come into the dorm, I was "shocked" (to put it lightly) at the incredible mess he'd managed to make in the time of four hours. We didn't exactly get off to a good start. Which means there was no surprise when I found that he'd thrown all of my things out of the window. Or that he'd thrown the tea out, too.

After that, it was a terribly long feud. To make matters worse, we both managed to find friends, but they were the same ones. It made dinner or just hanging out very difficult.

I'm not sure how we ever managed to get over that first little argument. I was completely convinced that he was the worst person on this entire planet. I made him sleep outside an infinite number of times. (Although, the favor was returned.)

Well, I suppose I do remember how we managed to get over our pettiness. It was late, if I recall correctly. The early hours of the morning. Francis was there, and maybe Kiku was too. We were fighting, again. I'm not sure what it was about. But Alfred looked furious. Too mad, far more than usual. I was scared. I remember Francis trying to break it up. It didn't work, needless to say.

I said something. I can't remember what, and no one will tell me now. But I saw Alfred loose it. I saw his eyes break, and I never wanted to take back something I said more in my life. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me against a wall. "_Shut the fuck up!_" He screamed. His face was red. "You don't know me, you don't _fucking _know me! You think you're so great, but you're not! You hate the world for no reason, and if you keep at it, it'll start to hate you back! I know I am! Fuck you, Kirkland!"

I thought he was going to hit me. I was waiting for it, but it never came. He just shoved off of my shoulders and ran out of the room.

Later, I found out that Alfred's mother had died three years ago, on that exact day. Francis tried to convince me that Alfred wasn't angry with me anymore, but I didn't believe him. I bunked with Kiku for a week.

The flowers arrived in front of Alfred's door on September twenty first. They were blue lilies. There was no card. But he took them inside anyway.

The next day, sunflowers showed. Still no card.

I went through an entire week worth of flowers. I had my friends—our mutual friends—go over and see if he was doing well. Sometimes they would bring the flowers over. No one told him who they were from, but he knew. He had to have.

The last day, there were roses. But it was different the last day, because I was holding them. When Alfred answered the door, I tried to say I was sorry, but he looked at me with—it was a expression I can't begin to describe, it was so watery and _alive. _But I didn't see it for long, because he took the roses and hugged me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Me too."

It would be a lie to say we didn't fight after that. But we always made up. It became tradition to apologize with roses. We didn't always do it, but when there was a big fight, one of us would always receive roses.

This is the only way we managed to graduate without killing each other, I'm sure. We didn't hang out during break until our senior year. I met Matthew, Alfred's brother. I took an instant liking to him, but I don't think he liked me very much. He was very quiet.

We all went to the beach, and had a huge bonfire. I'd been drinking, and so had most of everyone else. Even Matthew. But Alfred remained sober. He's always had a thing against alcohol. I remember saying something embarrassing, but don't ask what. I remember leaving the beach with him in his truck, saying that we had packing to do. But after that, it's black.

I woke up the next morning, things packed, in my bed, with a red rose on my dresser.

"_See you in a few weeks. And don't worry, your secret is safe with me."_

_-Alfred_

He never did tell me what secret he knows. I've been terribly afraid of blackmail ever since then.

The day of graduation, everyone was sobbing. Francis was the loudest, the freak. Elizaveta wouldn't let go of my arm until it was my turn to walk across the stage. Alfred and I were the only ones with dry eyes. I wasn't sure why everyone else was so sad.

"It's not like we'll never see each other again," I whispered to him, as we watched Kiku claim his certificate.

"I think they're just sad to leave behind all the fond memories," Alfred shrugged.

I chuckled. "Like the time I stole your towel and clothes and you were trapped in the shower all night, naked until Francis brought you something?"

Alfred snorted. "Or the time we had to evacuate the entire building because you decided to bake a cake."

"_It was an accident!"_

Alfred laughed, and heartily so. I always loved his laugh. We all went out for dinner. Our families were there. Alfred's father was a good man. I hoped Al would grow to be like him. My mum thought Alfred was the dearest thing on Earth. (Next to me, of course.)

It wasn't until after diner that life came crashing down on me. What was _next? _All my life, or at least the parts I could remember, I'd been in school. No matter the country. Sure, I'd had jobs. But now I needed a _career. _I know what I wanted to be, but where would I begin?

That's when Alfred fished me out of my first trouble. "So, when are you gonna give me the money for the first payment?"

I stared at my phone. What? I put down the box in my hand, and picked up my cellphone, turning it off speaker. "What are you talking about?"

"The payment for our apartment, duh. I need your half if you wanna get it this year."

I had to sit on my old bed. (Well, technically, it was now the guest bed. But it still felt like my room.) "You still want to room with me?"

I heard Alfred shuffle with something on the other end of the line. "Uh, duh. I thought it was obvious. Or do you have someone better then the Hero?" He laughed.

I sent him the money the next day.

We moved into the apartment in July. It was Alfred's birthday. He said he didn't want a big party, which really surprised me. He always threw extravagant celebrations with his brother. Instead, we stayed in. We ordered take-out and re-watched our favorite episodes of Doctor Who. (We'd both seen it countless times.) We fell asleep on the couch.

I woke up to the smell of fried eggs and hash browns. My mouth started watering on impact. If there was one thing Alfred could cook, it was breakfast. I made sure he knew I thought so.

"We're kind of like a married couple," I laughed.

Alfred put down his coffee, and swallowed heavily. My laughter died. He let his hand fall on the table. "Yeah," he said, nonchalantly. "Just without the good parts."

I wasn't sure if he was joking, but I laughed just in case. He laughed too.

You see, it's not like I wasn't _aware _of Alfred. He was my best mate, so it was obvious I loved the guy. But every so often I'd be reminded that Alfred was very, very _hot. _Or that he was openly bisexual. (He came out in our sophomore year.) Or even that he was available, and had been _for four years._

And then I'd realize that I'd been available for that long too. Why? Well, because I didn't think there was a man on this earth I'd rather spend time with instead of Alfred.

Rooming with Alfred became difficult after that.

I finally came into work, but it was not what I'd always dreamed it would be. I was a columnist for a local newspaper that no one read. It was my job to write about whatever they told me, mostly about ways to get pet hair out of your carpet or the best ways to unclog a toilet.

Alfred was far better off in his occupation. He was a carpenter, and he worked in his father's shop. It went well for me, too, because I got a free end table and a wine rack. But that didn't mean that my columns were getting more entertaining.

"Why don't you just quit?" Alfred suggested, his hand hidden in a bag of crisps and his eyes on the telly.

"Getting a job with writing isn't so easy, Alfred. It's hard to land a solid spot and stay there."

Alfred shrugged, shoving some crisps in his mouth. "Yeah," he agreed, his mouth full. "But you don't like your job. So it doesn't matter if you stay there."

I moved into the living room from the kitchen, and stared at the back of Alfred's head. He turned around. "What?"

I drew a hand threw my hair. "I'm either going insane, or you just gave me some good advice."

Alfred laughed, and the bag crackled as he went in for more. "Let's just go with both."

I quit a week later. I didn't regret it. For the first two hours.

"_Alfred, this is all your fault,_" I hissed into the phone. A saw shut off in the background. Alfred laughed. "Aw, what did I do this time? Listen, it's not that big of a deal if I forgot to flush, just flush now. It's only piss."

"_Not that, you fool!_" I shouted. For god's sake, Alfred was at _work! _"I'm talking about quitting! Now I'm never going to be hired again and I'll starve! You'll have to kick me out because I can't pay my share of the rent and I'll live on the streets and beg for money like...like a beggar!"

Alfred laughed again. I hate his laugh. "Dude, calm down. I'm not gonna kick you out. If you run into tough times I'll just put in some extra hours, it's no big deal."

I started pacing. "You are not going to _support _me through my life, you git. I'll have to go back to the office and beg for my job back-"

"Artie, chill. I will to take care of you if I have to, and you can't do anything about it. Promise me you won't go beg for your job."

"But-"

"No buts!"

I sighed. I hate Alfred. Always have, always will. "Fine, I promise."

"Good. Now don't do anything weird until I get home."

"Shut up. Goodbye."

When Alfred did finally return, I'd given up on 'not doing anything weird' and instead drank myself into a stupor. Alfred sighed. Thinking back, it never occurred to me not to drink. I was stressed, and I knew the only thing that would stop me from hurtling down the stairs and to the office was to be physically incapable of doing so. I never thought that I would become extremely...touchy.

I was all over Alfred, or so he later told me. I could barely stand, but it didn't matter, because Alfred was holding me up. I remember being quite pleased with that. "You're _hooome!_"

Alfred held me at arms-length, glancing over at the couch. "Yeah, I am. And you're drunk."

"I am?"

"Yes, you can't even stand."

I noticed that he was right. So I leaned in towards him, and to my embarrassment later, whispered:

"Carry me to bed, Alfie?"

I can't remember what his expression was like. I sometimes like to imagine that he blushed down to his neck and his lips did that weird half-frown-half-smile twitch. All I know is that I woke up in my bed the next morning, with a cup of cold tea on the end table.

I smiled at it before pulling myself up. Pain rushed up into my skull and began to knock on the backside of it. Great. I hadn't been hung over in months. It was going to kill me now. I groaned and swung my leg over the edge of the mattress, persuading the pounding in my head to numb. It didn't.

I stood, moaning, and shuffled into the living room. I was still wearing rumpled sweat pants and a T-shirt from yesterday.

"You're up?"

The voice was loud, so very loud. I clutched at my head and winced. "Yeah, and I'm really hung over."

Alfred shrugged. "Figured you would be. There's some black coffee on the counter. I know you hate it, but it will help so deal with it."

I wrinkled my nose, but moved past Alfred. He was still in his pajamas, I noted. Probably because it was Sunday. But it didn't matter what day it was. It didn't matter what either of us were wearing, or what time of day it was. Because something slipped. If I hadn't been so hung-over, I probably would have caught it in time. But it felt so natural. I parted my lips as I entered the kitchen, and uttered the horrible words:

"Thanks, love."

Alfred spluttered in the other room. I hope the coffee didn't stain the carpet. He knew that I didn't drop pet names anywhere. Unless I was drunk, (which I wasn't, not anymore) I kept things formal. Calling someone 'love' didn't just come easily to me.

_But it did._

"Did you just call me love?"

I stood,blushing and petrified, facing the coffee machine. Denial. Yes, denial is the perfect choice."No, of course not."

He let it go.

As much as we tried to ignore it, that little scene kept coming up. Every time I referred to him, Alfred perked up, listening for the word. He thought I didn't notice, but I did. And I was kept up at night thinking about _why he reacted that way. _Why did he perk his ears every time I said "thanks, Alfred." Why did he let it go? Why, _why _did he let it go?

All my friends had the same answers.

"Well, he obviously likes you."

I'd like to say I denied it. But seeing how denial didn't really get me anywhere the last time, I chose the next approach. The evidence was all there. And once I was looking for it, I noticed that we stood a little _too _close for comfort. That we finished each other's sentences, that we knew exactly what to say when the other was upset. Hell, it was as if we'd been dating for _years. _

"Well, you kinda have," Elizaveta chuckled. "You guys have spent the last four years with each other. Only with each other, really. Doesn't that count as dating?"

So I tested him. I wanted to see just what was happening between us, I wanted to be sure I was right. If anything, it was a fun game.

The first thing I did was flirt. I complimented his hair. I straightened his glasses. I swung my hips a bit more when I passed him. I laid just a tad more seductively.

He took the bait. He either smiled or blushed, and sometimes both. He started to flirt back, just a little, to my utter delight. He'd 'accidentally' brush my hand when I reached for something, or he'd fix my fringe.

But that was just the start of it. I decided to test just how close I could get. On a rainy Sunday, I offered up some Netflix and popcorn. We flipped on James Bond and I threw the popcorn Alfred's way. I didn't even wait for the guns to show to slide closer. He didn't notice, because he's an idiot. So I stretched closer. Nothing.

I got so close that I could literally feel the heat pouring off of him before he actually noticed I was there.

"Hm?" He mumbled, moving the popcorn out of his lap. "D'ya wanna lay down or something?"

_And he pat his legs. _This was more than I ever expected. This was not just acknowledging flirtations, or even flirting back. This was an _invitation to cuddle._

Needless to say, I accepted it.

I didn't pay much attention to the movie. I listened to his breaths. Every so often I'd reach up and grab some popcorn. He didn't seem to think anything of it when I turned around and buried my face in his stomach. Elizaveta was right. We were dating.

So I decided to speed up our terrifyingly slow relationship. When the movie ended, I laid on my back. My head was still in his lap, and he was looking down at me. The popcorn bowl had long been discarded.

"So, wanna hit the hay then?" He asked, shifting slightly.

I stayed quiet. I wouldn't have known what to say anyway. I pushed myself up so we were nearly face-to-face. He didn't move.

"I'm not tired."

Alfred smiled. "Hmm. Now that you mention it, neither am I. What do you want to do then? Watch another movie?"

"Maybe," I said, shrugging. His lips were really red. He had very light freckles across his nose. "How about a romance?"

For once, his nose didn't crinkle at the prospect. His hand moved around my back. He propped me so I was close to sitting on his lap.

"Romance it is."

So we kissed. I was a bit out of practice. But so was he. It didn't take long to remember, though. It was the best kiss I ever had, to date. Alfred was a lovely kisser.

The story didn't end there, though. Of course, telling everyone was rather exciting. Some of them nearly fell out of their chairs:

"Wait, you mean you guys _actually _got together? I thought the day would never come!"

And others were less enthusiastic:

"Finally. Now I don't have to watch your painful excuse for flirting every time we go out."

And I finally got a new job. Alfred was the one who convinced me to take the chance. So I sat down in front of my computer, and I began to type.

_Alfred has been my roommate for a while now..._

* * *

**Hello! I really like this story. I'm sorry for the cliches, but you have to admit, they're cliché for a reason. Any and all critique is welcome!**

**Thanks for all the reviews and follows guys! Also, I got some amazing fanart for chapter 12! There's a link on my profile, you should go check it out!**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	24. Eagle And Rose

**How I think England and America should have met:**

* * *

The New World. It was a vast, uncharted, and wild place. England was determined to name it his own. He had just spent months trapped on a boat with his men. And yes, they were brave souls, but they were not the brightest, and therefore not the best company.

So England set out to explore on his own. It was near mid-day, and he felt no immediate threat of beasts. But he did feel something else, and it set him on edge. Wind whistled through the pine trees, crisp and clean. A river rushed somewhere out of sight. The grass was earthy and it was obvious rain was not rare in this land.

But something was still _wrong. _England looked behind him, to the top of the trees, but found nothing.

It was too late by the time he realized it. _The birds weren't singing._

The moment the thought flashed before his mind, it was on his back. It made squawking, high-pitched noises. It had no fur, nor feathers. In fact, it felt like a very lanky pig. That image made England cringe. He backed up against the nearest tree, smashing the thing against the bark. It grunted, but did not loosen it's legs, which were the legs of a strong horseback rider. The muscles were wrong, though. Like it rode something besides horses.

_Humans?_

England tried to smash back into the tree again, screaming profanities. A wooden spear was placed under his chin. England froze. _A spear? _

This thing was far too light to be human! It was too strong to be a child—what the hell was it?

With a shout, the thing kicked off the tree. It flipped right over England's head, keeping the spear pressed against his neck the entire time. It had to be some sort of monkey.

But as England looked down at it, he saw something that really frightened him.

_A country._

A young nation was staring right back at him, not any taller than his hip. His long blonde hair was decorated with feathers, and his small chest was bare. He looked like he enjoyed an occasional mud bath.

"A savage," England whispered.

The wooden spear pressed farther into England's neck, causing him to gag. "We nok shou liense marutime?" The Nation growled. England had no idea what he was trying to say. He spoke nearly every language in the world, he was just a bit rusty in the Asian aspects. But this wasn't like anything he'd heard before.

"I do not mean to hurt you," England said, raising his hands above his head. "Or, at least yet."

The boy cocked his head to the side, and he jabbed the spear under England's side. Then he took off, howling like a wolf.

England thudded to the base of the tree, clutching his bruised side. His eyes were watering, but he managed to catch a glimpse of the dagger at the boy's side as he ran into the trees.

_He could have killed me any time he wanted to._

…

England began to keep his sword at his hip at all times. He didn't mention the meeting to any of his humans, they wouldn't understand. Instead he told them he saw a savage beast, and informed them to keep a gun at hand. They did.

He ordered for a watch, and made sure he took the latest one. Savages liked to attack in the night, it kept them hidden. They used such cowardly tactics, as if they were some sort of land-pirates.

England snorted to himself. When midnight came, he climbed up to the crow's nest and trained his eyes on the shore. He kept himself up with thoughts of how hard it would be for the savages to attack. These thoughts, vain as they were, didn't work as well as he'd planned them to. He started drifting off two hours later. The sand was starting to blend with the sea, and the trees were but a green blur. But out of them emerged a black figure. England jolted upright, his eyes following its every move. The figure moved out to the middle of the sand. England saw no other movement from the forest, just a lone figure.

Cautiously, he clambered down the ropes and over the edge of the ship. They were beached, due to the tides, so it was a short swim to shore. His sword was heavy. But he did not worry for rust.

When he did reach the sand, it was apparent that the figure was the Nation from before. It was very obvious. His blue eyes almost glowed in the dark. His hair was now tied back, but the many feathers remained. The mud had been wiped clean, in favor of some sort of paint. England assumed the symbols were letters.

The boy nodded at England as he approached, but kept a reasonable distance from him.

England's hand stayed ready at his sword. He felt heavy and exposed because of the water, and his eyes kept a constant scan of the forest behind the boy.

That why he didn't see the dagger. It didn't much matter, because the boy threw it on the ground, saying something in his language.

England understood. He unsheathed his sword, grinning at the look on the boy's face before he stabbed in into the sand. It fell over rather lamely.

"Why have you come?" England asked, gesturing towards the boy.

The Nation cocked his eyebrow before smirking. He said something in his language, before he gestured for England to follow him. He only walked a few paces away from the weapons before plopping down into the sand, and scratching something in it with his finger.

England watched from behind him, where he could keep an eye on things. The boy didn't seem to mind.

It took a minute, but the boy eventually sat up straight and grunted. "Bootah."

England peeped over his shoulder, to see a very impressive drawing of an eagle. Beside it was England's sword, laid so it was facing away from the bird. The boy pointed to the eagle. "Janjueyun," he stated, quite clearly. Then he pointed to himself, and repeated the word. "Janjueyun."

England cocked his head. "That's you?"

The boy nodded and pat his chest. "Janjueyun."

England knelt down next to the boy. "That's quite a mouthful," he joked, smiling. "I'll just call you Eagle." He pointed to Eagle's chest, and said his new name. The boy nodded.

He then pointed to the sword, and then to England. "Roes."

England pointed to the sword. "England."

The boy frowned, and then tried the word for himself. "Ing-led."

"No, England."

"Nongland."

"_England."_

The boy pouted, looking frustrated, before letting loose what England took to be Savage curses. "Hiuteres suoi tes xoi!"

England frowned with the small Nation, and then pointed to the sword. "Fine then. Rose."

Eagle looked up, hopeful. "Roes?" He pointed to England. "Roes?"

"Yes, Rose. Whatever."

The boy gave him the biggest smile, and then took off.

…

Communication was hard after that, but England spent a lot of time with the boy. He was very intelligent, compared to the men aboard the ship. The more progressed the village England was trying to build became, the better communication between Rose and Eagle grew.

"Rose! Rose!" Eagle shouted, his blonde hair flowing behind him as he ran in between the trees to meet England. "You kill them."

It was then that England realize the boy was crying. His blue eyes looked as if they were leaking, and his bottom lip quivered.

"I haven't killed anyone. What are you talking about?"

The boy wiped at his eyes, but the tears still flowed. He pointed to a tree. "You kill this!"

"A tree? Eagle, they're only trees."

The boy shook his head furiously, tears flying off his cheeks. "Alive! Alive but not anymore!"

England knelt down on one knee, and pulled the boy into his chest. "Don't you use them too? Why are you so upset?"

Eagle clutched onto England's shirt. "No this many. You make them piles, outside houses. Piles."

* * *

**I will probably make this a full fic eventually. Let me know if you think I should!**

**I just typed jibberish for the words America was speaking. I will never come close to learning any Native American languages. I can barely speak French, let alone something that has totally different grammar.**

**_Dear Jack,_**

**_Flattered as I am, I do not want to start any sort of online relationship, if that's what you're after. I'll be friends, I'll chat on skype with anyone. But long distance is not my thing. _**

**_I'm really glad you like my stories, and feel free to hit me up with a PM or an ask (on tumblr.) I'll talk anytime._**

**_But I must say, if It was the romantic sort of relationship you were trying to start, I think you should get to know a person first. You read my fanfics, and you know my name. But you don't know me. Slow down! You have your whole life ahead of you to get to know people. Don't get so involved so soon._**

**_-_****Mallory**


	25. A Taste Of Heaven

I have been a journalist for twenty years now. That makes me quite old, but let's keep that information a secret for now. For nineteen years of my career, I've been taking those I interview to a lovely restaurant in the city. It's called '_Un Avant-Goût Du Ciel'_ but I'm afraid after all these years I still can't pronounce it. It's French, and it translates to something like 'A Taste Of Heaven.'

It has lush, red carpet and curtains that flow from long windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling. All the tables are smooth and dark, the silverware polished and bountiful. Chandeliers hang from the high cream ceiling, and no noise can be heard from the kitchen. Unless, of course, you happen to come in on one of _those days _in which _that waiter_ is fighting with the head chef again.

Speaking of _that waiter, _we must discuss the rules of this restaurant.

Most fancy places like "A Taste Of Heaven" require you to come in with a nice nightgown or a tux. But not this one. They provide one for you if you don't have your own, no matter your size. I don't care if you're a size negative nine or if you're a two hundred. They will have something for you, and they will ask if you would like it in "red, pink, aqua or shimmering, madam?"

They will let you order dessert first, or maybe dessert and the main course at once. They won't bat an eye.

The specials? Don't look for a dolled-up black board with something that sounds like it has eyeballs written on it. You'll have to ask for the specials _book. _And no, they've not just run out.

In fact, there are only two rules in _Un Avant-Goût Du Ciel_.

1) Do not flirt with, touch, or make any attempts at the charismatic, handsome manager.

2) Do not flirt with, touch, or make any attempts at _that waiter._

If you do, prepare for the most horrific experience of you life. If you flirt with the manager, expect the _worst _service you have ever had. It is not a question of if your food has been spit on or not, it is a question of _how much spit. _And the tip? Oh, you better tip high. Higher than you have ever tipped before. No, that hundred bill will not do.

So let's say you decide that it's not the best choice to flirt with the manager, so you flirt with the waiter instead. _Bad choice._

Remember the charismatic manager? He was so handsome, that blonde hair flopped over to the side, his blue eyes smiling from behind his glasses. Not anymore. Now he's _demonic. _He'll storm over to your table with an unsettling grin, and take your waiter by the hip.

"Oh, _Artie,_" he'll whisper, "this food you've served the customer is completely unsatisfactory! You simply _must _take it back!"

"_Artie_" will only shrug, wiggle out of the arm around him, and move to grab your plate.

_Do not, under any circumstances, let him take the plate._

If you have to, offer your first-born child. Because if there's anything worse than a jealous manager, it's a jealous manager and his friend, the offended French chef. The two combined will be enough to not only kill you, but shoot you down to the bottom-most layer of hell.

For nineteen years of my writing career I have been going to this restaurant. Not once have I tried to brake the rules. I have, however, seen it been done many times before.

"So," I continued, cutting into my steak and nodding to '_Vogue's sexiest woman alive!' _"I suggest you start running. Now."

She grabbed her purse and lept up from the table. I watched as two blondes quickly followed after her. _This should make another interesting article._

* * *

**I decided to try something a bit different! I hope you liked it.**

**For those of you who said I should write the native-America story, I plan to. Unfortunately, it will take a long time to actually begin. I do apologize for the strip tease. **

**Sorry for any mistakes! Mon francais est pas bon!**

**-Mallory**


	26. I Spy, Unzip Your Fly

He was so close. Oh, he was so close he could taste it. He would have Kirkland in chains by the end of the night.

Of course, Agent Jones had a reason to be looking for the notorious Kirkland. An expert in illegal trade, cat burglary, and general bad-guy things, he was wanted in almost every nation on this sweet Earth. And he was wanted dearly.

But Kirkland was not your ordinary villain, as Agent Jones was quick to learn. He did not use other men for his dirty work. He did not attempt to hide his name. Sure, he moved around a lot, but he kept up the high-life, going to fancy events and renting the top-most hotel room. He was simply a master of escaping. Alfred had been this close so many times it was _embarrassing. _

But tonight. Oh, tonight was _the _night. Kirkland had landed him in yet another lavish party. Agent Jones was wearing his best suit. The untold millions of weapons underneath it, were of course, the reason for favoritism. He'd shaken off every scantily dressed woman, danced with an old lady, and even managed to snag a picture with one of his favorite actresses. The night was going well.

But there was still no sign of Kirkland.

_He should be here, _Jones thought, scanning the party. _All my sources pointed to this direction, and this is just the place that draws him in!_

Meaningless faces stared back at Jones, too-large noses and too-light hair. Too-short women winked at him, and too-fat men glared.

Jones was beginning to feel frustrated. He was aching to mark this case as 'COMPLETED.' He sighed, and looked towards the wine. He hadn't touched it all night in the hopes of spying Kirkland, but a little social lubrication couldn't hurt, right?

One step was all it took. Then he felt it. Breath on his neck. Blonde hair came into the very ridges of his peripheral vision. It was the perfect shade of blonde. A body moved in front of him. The height was just right, the skin color, the eyes, and even those two massive eyebrows. It was him.

"I was expecting you!" Kirkland said, keeping his hand on the small of the Agent's back. There was no question that he had a weapon up his sleeve.

"Kirkland," the Agent gritted, eyes glaring as his whole body tensed. "I was expecting you as well."

"Oh, please, Alfred. We've met enough times to be on a first name basis, don't you think?" He laughed. Alfred hated his laugh. It was dry, but warm and bubbly. It was not the laugh of a villain. "Now," Kirkland said, his face falling into a more serious expression. "How would you feel about stepping into another room? I think we need some alone time."

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek, silently cursing whatever force put the wine on the other side of the room out for him to see. "Lead the way, Arthur." Alfred growled.

The villain led the way, and quickly. The whole time his hand stayed pressed up to Alfred's spine. Inches from a kill. The only reason Alfred was not yet dead was for the caution of a scene. Too many people around. Arthur hated causing panics. He liked to keep to himself, mostly.

Alfred was pushed through a thick wooden door, into a dimly lit room that seemed far too large to be vacant during a party. Perhaps Arthur had previously reserved it with the intent to murder him. It had happened before.

The moment the doors closed, Alfred twisted so the knife/gun/bread stick wouldn't kill him if Arthur decided that now was the time. He grabbed Arthur's wrist, and threw it up. Arthur put up quite the resistance, but they both knew that Alfred was stronger, if only just.

Though, for all his strength was worth, Arthur was notoriously intelligent, and even more so agile. He kicked up, pushed off the door, and flipped onto Alfred's shoulders. His wrist was wrenched from Alfred's grip.

"Bloody hell! Leave me alone, you bastard!" He screamed, pulling a knife. Alfred should have expected such a short hand weapon. Kirkland liked things up-close, personal, and silent. A knife provided all of those things, and a jeweled dagger added style.

Alfred backed up into a wall. "Duties call!" He grunted, grabbing Arthur's thighs. He flicked his wrists, sending the ATD BETAELEC3400 onto his dress pants. He smirked. Kirkland would never see it coming.

Arthur stabbed the knife down, but Alfred threw him off before the knife could make any sort of contact. Arthur fell on the floor with a thud, and Alfred ran like hell.

The ATD BETAELEC3400 went off. Two beeps, and then ZAP. Pulses of electricity strong enough to kill an elephant was released from them. Not exactly Alfred's favorite weapon, but hey, it worked.

Alfred turned around to collect the body, to find Arthur, fully un-fried; and no pants.

His black boxer-briefs left little to the imagination, while his ditched clothing smoked on the floor in front of them.

"Please," Arthur scoffed. "As if I hadn't seen that wrist technique before. You used it in Madrid, you numbskull. Different gadget, same desired effect." Arthur clenched his dagger tightly. "Now be a good boy and make this fast, I need to go find new trousers."

Alfred would have ripped his hair out, had he found the time. But Arthur charged him, and he was not ready to meet his end. Alfred reached into his coat and pulled out a gun.

Arthur tutted. "Cowardly," he commented. He reached into his own coat. Alfred should have shot him right then, but he was curious. There was no way a gun could be hiding there.

Arthur pulled out a single pen. Alfred tensed, expecting it to be a laser, or a least something other than the ballpoint pen it was designed to look like.

But no. Arthur simply threw it, just off to his left, and CLICK.

Off go the lights.

"Fuck," Alfred whispered, wishing that out of all his weapons his suit had come equipped with night-vision goggles. Or at least a flashlight.

Of course, the two of them had been in worse situations. Trapped in a dark room with a pants-less enemy was very low on the list of strange situations Alfred had been involved in since he began searching for Arthur Kirkland.

A foot swept under his legs. Alfred fell back, gun going off to the ceiling. His waistband was yanked down, and his pants were ripped clean off as if they weren't belted or buckled.

"Holy fuck, man!" He screamed. Okay, this definitely made it to one of those 'memorably strange things that have happened since Kirkland.'

"Sorry, mate," Arthur laughed. The sound of pants ruffling pierced Alfred's ears. Where did his gun go?

"I need these. The security will be coming soon. See you next time!"

Alfred cursed again, and flailed around for his gun. He finally grasped it, when the doors were thrown open and the light was flicked on.

Security found him, no pants, and aiming a pistol at their heads.

Alfred had been this close so many times it was _embarrassing._

* * *

**Hey guys! New update! I would've had this out sooner, except I hadn't planned to write a spy story. I actually wanted to do something with a haunted house, but I'm having some trouble with it. Hopefully, it will be the next chapter. **

**Let me know how this was! Critique is appreciated!**

**Sorry for any mistakes, but it's late, I have 3 exams tomorrow, and I don't feel like reading it over.**

**Also, pants are trousers in America. Sorry to any amused Brits out there.**

**-Mallory**


	27. A Beautifully Late Delivery

America was used to beautiful things. Sure, he wasn't exactly the oldest nation around; but he wasn't exactly the youngest, either. He'd seen buffalo running across vast golden prairies. He'd watched the sun set in the western ocean, the rough waves pushing up brown sand. He'd seen the sun rise over the calm eastern sea, the white powder under his feet sticking to the soles of his shoes. He'd seen cherry farms, the pink leaves drifting down so slowly. He walked across the rocky mountains when the snow was just starting to melt, little buds of green pushing their way from the crystals.

After centuries of the beauty, America was quite desensitized to it. It was merely like looking into the mirror. It was seeing the face you saw everyday. Others may call it beautiful, but to you, it is merely you.

America cracked open his eyes to yet another beautiful morning, freezing air flowing in from the open window like a gentle ghost. He shivered under the blankets, and threw them over his head. He didn't want soft morning light and chirping winter birds. He just wanted to sleep.

His phone was not about to let that happen, however. It started screaming at him, flashing all sorts of numbers and ugly ringing tones. America groaned and reached for it. Had it not been for the pre-programmed message, he probably would have shut it off like any other day. But there was a pre-programmed message, and it read quite clearly:

"GET UP. YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE AND ENGLAND WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU."

America flew out of the bed, nearly tripping over the blankets. He punched the end button on his phone, rushing to the bathroom and thanking his past-self for knowing exactly what to say to get his ass out of bed. He couldn't mess up today. England really meant a lot to him, more than he'd ever want to admit.

After taking a quick shower, running a brush through his hair and another over his teeth, America was faced with the horrible dilemma of picking out clothes.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he chanted, searching through his closet for something that seemed right. England was more of a proper person in public, right? America grasped a button up in the back of the closet, but it was wrinkled so terribly one side was actually shorter than the other.

"Crap."

He plunged back into the closet, and finally found a nice tan sweater. He grabbed some jeans, pulled on a pair of vans, grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door. He didn't even bother with coffee, which he was sure he'd regret later.

…

"You're late."

America sighed. He had put forth so much effort, but in the end it didn't even matter. "I'm only like five minutes late! Give me a break, I had to stop for gas!"

England pushed himself off the wall, glancing up and down the was wrapped up in a green scarf and a warm blue jacket. He wasn't wearing slacks, but instead skinny jeans and thick combat boots. America cursed himself silently. Now he was over-dressed.

"I came all the way over to America, the least you could do is show up on time."

America rolled his eyes,trying not to think about clothes. "You were in Canada for Christmas."

"Which is in America! It's a bloody continent, you conceited brat!"

America refrained from reminding England that it was actually two bloody continents, and instead chose to follow him down the sidewalk.

"So, where are we going?" He asked, smiling at a little girl as both she and her mother passed. The trees that were planted every few feet along the sidewalk were long dead, and the air was starting to nip at his nose.

"First I need to grab some tea," England told him, pulling his scarf up to his chin. "I haven't had any today, and I'm starting to feel ill."

America didn't roll his eyes and mutter about how tea was such an old man drink, because he knew that where they sold tea, they sold coffee, and he was starting to go through withdraw symptoms.

America sighed, and followed after the Brit in silence. England only agreed to spend this day with America because he'd skipped out on yet another Christmas party, choosing to spend the holiday with Canada instead. (Canada was not fond of the rather "exciting" Christmas parties America hosted, and they normally spent New Years together instead.)

With a jolt, America realized he hadn't bought England a present.

"Idiot! Idiot!" He whispered to himself, all but pulling the hair out of his head.

"What's that?" England asked, turning around to cast a skeptical glance to the American trailing him.

America flashed a smile. "Nothing! Just talking to myself. You should know about that, shouldn't you?"

England's eyes flashed dangerously, and he began to rant about magic and fairies. America zoned out, quickly thinking over a plan.

First things first, England hadn't given him a present. So if things stayed on that route, then America wouldn't have to worry. If England did managed to pull out something from the depths of his pockets, though, America would have to think fast. Poetry, maybe?

_Roses are red,_

_and so are you_

_when you're mad at me_

_for forgetting this year, too._

_But never fear_

_for I have not_

_A present for you,_

_I've surely got._

America cringed. Poetry really wasn't his thing, and that particular piece would only lead him back to the beginning problem of having nothing to give.

They reached the coffee shop, and ducked into the warmth, ears immediately turning to pins and needles. England strode up to the counter and ordered some fancy tea that America was sure only hipsters drank, while America grabbed a quick cup of sugar-chocolate-caffeine to calm down his frayed nerves.

They drank by the window, each reserving their distaste for the other's drink. "So," England began, tracing a finger around the edge of his cup. "It's been a while since I've last seen you."

America nodded, pressing his warm lips together. He'd hate to admit it, but he had missed England terribly over the long pause between meetings, because he might have had the tiniest crush on him. (A crush, may I specify, that has been going on for 200+ years.)

"I've been rather busy," England explained, taking a sip of his tea. "And I'm not really a fan of your parties, so I took the time to see Canada. It had been a while for us too."

America nodded again. "Yeah, I know. I wish you would come to an x-mas thing though. They get pretty fun, and Japan was there."

They finished their drinks in light chatter, America not saying half the things he wanted to, and England saying too many things. Then they were back on the sidewalk.

"It's snowing," England gasped, wrapping his scarf tighter and pulling on a pair of gloves. America shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around at the gray sky that blocked the sun, the dead gray trees, and the little white crystals falling as slow as those cherry tree leaves he'd seen so many times.

"It's beautiful," England whispered. "We don't get this sort of snow in London. Usually it's the wet stuff that clumps together and melts too quickly."

America nodded. That stuff was common up in New England, but out in the west, where they were presently, they were blessed with the fluffy white blanket that screamed to be made into a Christmas post-card.

America shrugged in his bomber jacket. It was just more snow, just like the snow from last year, and the year before that. He looked over to see how England felt about continuing to walk in the snow, and nearly had a heart attack.

England was _smiling. _It wasn't the kind of clever-joke smile, or what-a-nice-gesture, or even a thanks-for-the-help. It was a genuine, personal, actual _smile. _America chocked on the very air he needed to live.

England was the only thing America would never tire of. He would never get used to the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he was beaming like he was now. Or how his smile crooked up just slightly at on side. As snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, and tangled in his hair, America admitted for the thousandth time that England was the one, only, and best beauty on Earth.

"Are you alright?"

England wasn't smiling anymore, but it didn't matter, because America's vision was already tuned-in to every feature England ever possessed, and he was starting to feel dizzy.

"Yeah! Just fine, I wasn't expecting snow today, that's all." America coughed into his hand, and blinked out his eyes. "Now, where are we going?"

England blew out his cheeks. "Always impatient, aren't you? We're almost there, calm down."

They began walking again, much to America's relief. They passed building after tiny building. Soon the shops disappeared and gave way to a view of the mountains that surrounded them, already white-capped. There, England turned around, and to America's utter distress he found he was blushing. Which was adorable, but it was not what America needed to see at the moment.

"Listen," England muttered, not meeting the American's gaze. "I know that you're a fan of the big, extravagant presents. Either that or video games or something like that, but..." Here, England paused and coughed, throwing his gaze all the way to his shoes. "I thought that you might actually like...this."

And there, England unzipped his jacket and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. It looked very old, and it was browning at the edges. America took it carefully, dread pouring down his spine as he realized that this was, in fact, a Christmas present. And he was, in fact, screwed.

He unfurled the paper, and immediately recognized the script. It was England's draw carefully in old ink pen. The letter was dated in December of the late 1800's.

_Dear America,_

_I haven't written to you for years. I realize that I probably should have written to you more before. Then maybe all of this wouldn't have happened, then maybe I'd be able to invite you to my place for Christmas or wonder how you might be doing and just be able to ask. I realize that I've made mistakes, and I can't exactly say sorry. _

_I wish I could sit you down and explain everything I did. I wish I could, but I can't, and I worry I won't ever. I wish you could do the same, and sit me down one day and explain things, but you can't. And just for your information, wishing on a shooting star doesn't work._

_So instead, I'd just like to say Merry Christmas. And that I miss you. _

_Love, _

_England._

America stared over the edge of the paper. England still wasn't looking at him. He was toeing the sidewalk with his boot, instead. America carefully folded up the paper, stuck it deep into his pocket, and collected England in a very risky hug.

America tried not to think about how he would have liked to kiss him instead, because this wasn't about him, it was about England.

"Thank you," America whispered.

England let loose a nervous chuckle. "It was a bit of a late delivery," he said.

America pulled back, holding England out at arm's length and forcing the Brit to look at him. "Well," America started. "I'm gonna be honest with you. I completely forgot to get you something for Christmas, which is a total dick move. But, as an apology, how about we make some of those wishes come true?"

* * *

**You can decide how it ends.**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	28. Silver Key Of East

_"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight,_

_somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."_ -Fyodor Dostoevsky

* * *

Arthur was completely happy running the tiny inn, which was set atop a hill in his tiny village. At night he would run the tiny bar and he would talk to the people about their tiny lives. Sometimes the tiny boy from across the road would work as a stable hand. Arthur's life was completely devoid of anything large, but he didn't mind it one bit.

One quiet winter night, when Arthur was busy filling up a glass of whiskey for the shivering fisherman from down the road, the front door of his inn was thrown open, and the biggest problem he would ever face stepped into his life.

The only word for the man was 'big'. He wasn't bigger than the town's blacksmith, or the gruff sailors that sometimes visited, but large enough to make loud, echoing footsteps as he stomped the snow off his boots. His smile was too large for an elephant, his muscles matched his height, and he was quite obviously the most annoying thing Arthur had ever laid eyes upon.

He was strange, though. His step did not carry the saunter of a rough winter sea, his skin was not weathered by the constant wind that pushed at sails, and there was no visible weapon hanging at his hip. He wore spectacles, which Arthur thought he would never see on a sailor, let alone a customer. A sailor he clearly was, from the style of his clothes to the build of his body, but he was certainly the oddest sailor of the seas.

He nodded his head as a sort of greeting, to both Arthur and the fisherman, and leaned up on the bar as if he were the one who'd built it.

"May I be of service?" Arthur asked tersely, his eye twitching at yet another one of _those customers. _"Sir," he added, though it wasn't very felt.

"Aye," the man said, brushing some half-melted snow from his hair. "Rum and a room, if you'd be so kind."

His words were said with all the sincerity of a preacher, but his playful smirk opened the door to his true emotions. Arthur's eye gave another twitch.

"The rum will be a ha'penny."

The odd sailor nodded, and seemingly out of nowhere he tossed the copper at the inn keeper, who would not have caught it had this not been the usual behavior of his clientele.

Arthur tossed a bottle back at the large man, who did not seem to notice the hostility. Instead, he uncorked his alcohol. To Arthur's surprise, he did not guzzle it down, but instead took a sip and turned his attention to the fisherman.

"How are the waters, would you say?"

Arthur had no idea how the odd sailor knew that the shivering man at the bar was a fisherman, and therefore knew the sea. It wasn't as if he looked apart from anyone else in the village, although, with it being a fishing village, perhaps it was only safe to assume.

"Cold, I assure you," the man replied, through chattering teeth. "Not a favorable wind in sight, either. You should be docked for a while."

The man shrugged his large shoulders. "The sea is a mistress, always indecisive and unpredictable."

The fisherman gave a light chuckle. "She is, isn't she?"

Arthur left the men, the ocean was of no concern to him, and returned to running the few chores left of the day. He was about to start wiping down the bar, when a loud chorus broke out from two stools in the corner of the room.

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

Arthur's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. _'A bottle of rum indeed.' _He thought. At least it explained the oddity of his new customer. He was not a sailor at all, but a pirate, and an idiotic one at that. If Arthur had any sense, he'd fetch some sort of official and have the man hanged.

But Arthur was from a small fishing village, and Arthur had very little sense.

"Aw, what's the frown for, girly?" The sailor asked, his fourth bottle swinging in his hand.

"_Girly?_" Arthur squawked, all traces of formality leaving his posture.

"Aye, you've got the look about you. From the swing of your hips to the turn of your nose."

Arthur felt the blood rise up to his face, boiling under his skin. His fists clenched, and the drunken fisherman immediately ducked. He knew this behavior.

"_Girly!_" Arthur repeated, the vein of his neck throbbing. "Who the devil do you think you are? You enter my bloody inn, and under no provocation you _insult me_?"

The pirate laughed heartily, which did not go unmarked, and cast a wink towards the fuming man. "Never meant no offense! The name's Jones." He crowed, his head falling forward onto the lip of the rum. He drained the last of it, and hoped off his stool, swaying.

"Now," he sighed, as if he'd finished taking a long afternoon nap. "About that bed, eh?"

Arthur's grip slipped. His fist came up, as it normally did, in his famous right hook. He was not the most muscled man in his village, but he was certainly strong. It would surely be a knock out.

Yet, before his arm had even reached the proper angle, his fist was stopped short. This jarred him, the bones of his right limb creaking.

"Oh-ho-ho!" Jones cried, his hand tightening around the inn keeper's fist. "My mistake, it seems the girly's got spunk!"

The fisherman, who'd previously been happy to laugh and sing with the curious pirate, was now edging his way back outside, preferring the cold to the heat of the argument.

Arthur wrenched his fist back, pretending like his bones had not been crunched. "By my word, you'll never find a bed in this town! Crawl back to your whore house and your molding ship!"

"I do doubt that," said Jones, his mouth pulling down into the traces of pity. "Like I said, I never meant no offense."

The fisherman was now safely out the door, and probably off to tell those he favored to keep out of the inn for a while. Being a winter night, it wouldn't be much of a problem.

Jones leaned down. His breath carried the foul stench of rum, yet his teeth remained white. Arthur noted again that he seemed to have no weapon. What sort of pirate did this man think he was?

As the man bent at his waist, a small silver key slipped out from under his shirt and sea-coat. It hung on a small piece of twine. Arthur's eyes went straight to it. For a moment, he forgot about his anger, he forgot about his throbbing hand. Instead he longed for the sea. He longed for the feel of waves on his cheek and salt on his breath. He needed to go West. He wanted to chase the sun.

Jones tucked the key back under his shirt, a curious look on his face. The moment the gleam of the silver was gone, Arthur snapped back into his anger.

Jones had wide eyes behind his spectacles, and he set the bottle down on a nearby table.

"Never," said he, a quietness to his words, "did I think it could be someone like you."

* * *

**Hello everyone! I'm not sure if I want to continue this or not, but I think I will someday. Treasure Island inspired this, and if you're into reading, I definitely recommend the book! It's got pirates and death and a creepy old blind man.**

**I had some trouble with the dialogue, but I think it turned out okay in the end. I'm actually pretty proud of this. Thanks for reading.**

**I hope you enjoyed!**

**-Mallory**


	29. Get Rich

**American to English: Bangs are Fringe **

Arthur flopped onto the faded plaid couch, shoving his sweaty bangs away from his forehead. It had been such a long day at work. But fish didn't catch themselves, he supposed.

Moments later, Alfred pushed open the door. He didn't look much better off. He worked in a construction site, though the job was supposedly only temporary. Arthur hoped it lasted longer. They really needed the money.

Times were tough, and they were definitely in a pinch. It wasn't the sort of "college-kid" poor. It was the sort of "do-you-think-we-can-do-without-phones" poor. (And, by the way, they could in fact do without phones.)

Alfred flopped on the couch beside Arthur. He smelled of asphalt, which was quite foul, but Arthur figured he didn't exactly smell any better. They both looked like rags hanging on a tattered rope, blowing limply in the wind. Arthur sighed and heaved himself forward, glaring at the bills piling on the coffee table in front of him.

"We should sort through these, Al."

Alfred stared at the offensive papers, a look of contempt hiding his attractive features. "No," he said, simply.

"Al, I know we're tired, but we have to do this. We can't put it off an-"

Alfred cut him off. "Let's get rich."

Arthur blinked, and pushed back his bangs again. Maybe the work was getting to his head... "What are you on about?"

"Let's get rich," Alfred repeated. "We can buy a house in England, you like England better, anyway. A big house. With five bedrooms and five bathrooms and a huge dining room and a five-star kitchen."

Arthur couldn't imagine why Alfred was speaking of such obvious child-like dreams, but he couldn't exactly tell him to stop. He looked too happy. He looked as if he could make fiction reality by believing in it hard enough.

"It will be on a mountain, they have mountains there, right? And we can get a jacuzzi, I've always wanted one. And a big king sized bed that doesn't squeak and it will have a wooden frame an everything. And you can open a dance school, because damn, you're the best dancer I've ever seen in my life. And I can study astronomy, instead of just staring at the stars."

Arthur smiled. Perhaps, just maybe, if you believed something hard enough, it might have the slightest chances of coming true.

"We'll have to have a library. Books everywhere. All the way to the ceiling. And a fireplace. With a large, leather couch and a rug."

Alfred tugged himself up, so he stood on tired legs, and he bowed to Arthur. "My lord," he began with a smirk, "I take it that you will be staying home this evening?"

Arthur laughed. He wasn't in the shabby, second-hand (forty third-hand) apartment with minimal furniture and leaky pipes. He was in that house on the mountain. In the grand library that was so large it looked like it belonged to a king. He took Alfred's hand, brushing aside his red velvet cape. "I do believe I will retire early, my good man."

"Such a shame," Alfred tsked, shaking his head. "And the chefs were to prepare an Italian special..."

Arthur pretended to look disappointed. "Ah, well, would you mind joining me in my...'retirement'?"

Alfred smirked, the tiredness of his limbs completely gone. Because he hadn't worked hard a day in his life. He was a noble, of course.

"It would be my greatest pleasure."

So the two noblemen made their way down the grand hallway to their four-poster bed, where they made love without feeling a stitch of fatigue. They held each other through the night, because they knew that no bills awaited them in the morning, that they would not have to rise and get ready for work, and that a grand Italian meal will await them in the morning.

"God, let's get rich."

**Inspired by "You and I" by Ingrid Michaelson.**

**I'm tired, but this was a bit of a refresher for me. I feel like I haven't written anything for pleasure lately. It's been notes, writing exams, creative writing tests, French themes...it sucks.**

**So sorry if I'm a bit rusty, but I'm so tired right now. Also, please overlook mistakes!**

**(If you read Greensleeves, I may have an update soon, but no promises. Life is draining me right now.)**

**-Mallory**


	30. Beatles and Eagles

**This story contains a sex scene. Shield your virgin eyes. **

* * *

The 80's is often stereotyped quite heavily. It's filled with rock music, raves, and sex.

This story just so happens to take place in the prejudged era, and as the writer, I can easily say that this story does not differentiate from the stereotypes at all, and it is indeed what you might find if you were to travel to the most cliché 80's moment in a time machine. (Or a blue police box.)

I give you, dear reader, the epitome of rock: the rock concert. Girls with too-tight-jeans and too-much-skin. Leather everywhere your eye lands. Red and blue lights, heavy eye make-up, and let's not forget the thundering beat on the drums, or the loud guitar.

The particular song playing was of the classic sort, something by The Eagles. It was, of course, what leads us to introduce our first character.

Alfred F. Jones, a man who is not well known, happens to be willing to lay down his life for any person who loves The Eagles as much as he does. He is just as stereotypical as this story, being covered in tattoos (his favorite is the star over his heart.) He has the greased back hair, the loose smile, and the showy jeans. He was, after all, a fan of rock.

He was working his way through the crowd, the words still on his lips, trying to find where that girl with the drinks went...

"Oi! How 'bout you watch where you're going?"

And thus, we meet the second character, a man just a stereotypical as the first, but in a very different way. He had, of course, been bumped into by Alfred, who was finding it hard to concentrate when he was singing at the top of his lungs and swinging an air-guitar.

"Sorry," he yelled over the noise. "I just love this song!"

Arthur, through his heavy make-up, rolled his eyes. "I've heard better. They're alright."

Alfred dropped his air-guitar in shock, and it clattered noiselessly to the floor. "Are you kidding me? The Eagles are my life!"

Arthur shrugged. "Typical. They've nothing on the Beatles."

Alfred almost didn't hear the absurd statement over the music, the crowd, and the girl selling drinks. "The Beatles? Are you kidding me? Even if you sound British, I mean, _old school!_"

"If by old school you mean _perfect in every way _then yes, that's correct."

"They're barely even rock!"

Arthur's eyes widened, a hand drew up to his chest, and he looked almost as if he was suffocating. "Not rock!" He repeated, as if doing so would shed some clarity on how the man in front of him could be so stupid. "The bloody hell do you mean 'not rock'?"

"Well, I'm just saying, they're not rock like _Eagles _rock."

Arthur's face began to turn a weird sort of red, and the hand on his chest clenched. "As if the bloody Eagles are rock! Ha! Might as well be disco."

It was the highest of insults. Arthur Kirkland, in a few simple sentences, had managed to turn the usually level-headed Alfred Jones into a murderous fan. But really, it was almost as if he had it coming to him, because..._disco?_

"What the hell, man? Disco? Are you fucking insane?"

"Aw, I don't know. Why don't you just go ask your mum?"

It took Alfred a few minutes to process that his words had been twisted, but once they had he wasted no time acting. His hand flew up to grab a fistful of Arthur's shirt, because as any mature adult would know, that was the only proper way of reacting.

Heads around the two men turned, happy to watch another fight. (They were not as uncommon as one would think.)

The audience would be disappointed, however, because just as Arthur's glare turned into something nasty, the song changed, and at the same time, the boys exclaimed:

"Aerosmith!"

Alfred released Arthur, though cautiously. "You like Aerosmith?"

Arthur shrugged. "I was going to ask the same thing of you. Perhaps your taste isn't entirely too bad...The Eagles are still average, though."

"Not disco?"

"No, not disco."

"Good. I didn't want to punch an Aerosmith fan."

Alfred took a step back, thinking that he could perhaps pretend that the other man had never commented on The Eagles, and that they could part peacefully.

He didn't need to. He looked back up, trying to find a way to apologize for lashing out, but all he saw was a mischievous smile, and then the back of a blonde head.

That was supposed to be the last time Alfred ever saw the Beatles fan. But Alfred is a stereotypical man, and this is a stereotypical story.

Alfred was late. Horribly, terribly late. How could he have forgotten? Oh, Matthew was going to _kill _him. Alfred jogged down the street. He needed to get to the bus stop. He needed to find a payphone and call in quickly-

He needed a present!

Alfred stopped abruptly so he could smack himself in the forehead. He'd forgotten to get his own brother a birthday present. Looking around, he saw a promising shop. It had records stacked up by the windows and guitars hanging from the ceiling. He could grab some Bryan Adams for his brother and head the hell out of there.

As he opened the door, a little bell twinkled above his head. The store was brightly lit, but covered in dust. There were only a few bored teenagers milling about, picking up CD's only to toss them down again. One of them looked at Alfred's ripped jeans and tattoos and smirked a look of approval. Alfred rolled his eyes. Kids.

He walked over to a promising rack, and began rifling through some records.

"Could I help you?"

Alfred would have normally just shook his head and returned to the music, but there was something about the voice that made him look up. The snide, English accent with a heavy bout of sarcasm resting just behind the words.

Just as he thought, the Beatles fan.

His eyes widened as he registered it. Of all the shops in all the towns. "It's you again."

The man's eyebrow lifted. "You're that bloke from the concert. The Eagles fan."

Alfred smiled. "My name is Alfred, actually, but it's nice to know you remembered me."

"More of your music taste, less of yourself. My name is Arthur."

Alfred held out his hand, and Arthur took it, shaking it once before turning to look at the records Alfred had been rifling through.

"You know, we have cassettes at the back. I can show you some Aerosmith."

Alfred snapped back to reality. "Oh crap! No, this isn't for me. It's for my brother, he prefers records for whatever reason..."

Alfred began flicking through the music frantically, not really looking at the names anymore.

Arthur's rolled his eyes. "I take it that you've forgotten to get him a present and you're now panicking. Calm down, first of all."

Alfred stopped what he was doing and turned away from the rack, and instead looked at Arthur with a pleading expression.

Arthur laughed. "Alright, tell me what sort of music he likes."

…

Alfred handed Arthur some crumpled money, the bag with his new purchase safely inside already under his arm. Alfred typed something into the cash register, looking bored. It popped open with a ding, and he handed Alfred his change.

Alfred knew that he had to go. He was already late, he could feel Matthew's glare from where he was standing. But he didn't want to.

"When do you get off?"

Arthur's bored expression dropped, and instead he looked to Alfred with wide green eyes (which were not covered in black eyeliner.)

"Seven."

Alfred smiled. "Awesome. Wanna...go to a restaurant or something? I'll be heading back from the party anyway."

Arthur shut the drawer of the register, chewing on his inner cheek. "Is this a date?"

Alfred's eyebrows flew up, and he leaned back a little. What were the chances that...? "Do you want it to be?"

"Well, if it is, then you have to pay. So yes."

Alfred laughed. Of all the people in all the stores.

…

"Are you late to everything or did you just wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?"

Alfred smiled nervously and pushed at the hair on the back of his head. "Sorry! My mom held me up, yelling at me about getting another tattoo or something like that. And Matthew is still pissed at me for being late so he wasn't about to stand up for me. I had to claw my way out."

Arthur glanced down at Alfred's arms, which were covered by a large leather jacket. Surprisingly, it was brown, not black.

"Which tattoo?" Arthur asked.

Alfred removed the jacket, revealing arms that were covered in anything from a boat anchor to a treble clef. Arthur looked impressed.

Alfred pointed to a tattoo just above his elbow. It was a tree that seemed to bare skulls instead of fruit. Arthur nodded. "Cool."

Alfred put his jacket back on, and began walking slowly, towards a bus stop. "Do you have any?"

Arthur stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed along leisurely. "Tattoos? Just one. But you can't see it."

Alfred swallowed thickly. "Oh? Is it...low?"

Arthur laughed, and ran his hand down his right side. "No, it's here. It's just something I like to keep to myself. Besides, it's too big. To see it well, I need to be naked."

Alfred looked away. "Okay. So where do you wanna eat?"

…

Arthur wasn't sure when dinner became drinking, or when drinking became walking home to his apartment with Alfred still in tow, or when walking became making out. It just...happened.

Alfred ran his hand up Arthur's torso, pressing him against the wall. Arthur kicked the door closed with some difficulty, and then threaded his hands through Alfred's hair.

Frankly, it didn't matter when dinner turned to drinking or walking to kissing, because Alfred was bloody good at it, and he didn't really want to stop. "Mm, Alfred, couch..."

Alfred was still sucking at Arthur's neck, having trailed all the way down his chin and jaw bone. It took him a while to detach himself to reply, leaving Arthur's skin with a pop and a hot breath. "Bed?" He asked, letting the unspoken question hang in the air.

Arthur thought about it, but it was very hard to concentrate with Alfred's hands running up his sides, to his hips, down to his butt, and up to his shoulders. Alfred, impatient, nuzzled his nose into Arthur's hair.

Arthur threw caution to the wind. "Bed," he agreed, dragging Alfred further into his apartment, nearly tripping over the love seat when Alfred started kissing him again.

They fell onto the sheets, Alfred on top of Arthur, still pushing his hands all over the blonde's body. Arthur arched up, letting his head fall back and exposing his neck so Alfred could go back to sucking at it. The Eagles fan worked his hands under Arthur's shirt, pushing it higher and higher until he got it all the way off. He paused his work to strip his own jacket and shirt off, before falling back down to capture Arthur's lips once more.

Arthur ran his hands over Alfred's bare chest, marveling at the new tattoos, the stars just above Alfred's heart all in red white and blue. His thoughts stopped, however, when he felt two hands at the button of his jeans. He brushed them away and undid it himself, pushing his jeans and underwear down at the same time. His hands moved up to Alfred's pants, where he did the same thing.

They were both very obviously excited.

Alfred bent down again, but Arthur pushed him back with a hand on his chest. He sat up, whispering a short explanation. "Lube."

He stretched over to reach into the bedside drawer. Behind him, he heard a low voice.

"I like your tattoo."

Then there was a hand on his side, running up the length of what Arthur knew was a red six string. He shivered, and grabbed the lube, pushing it into Alfred's hand so he would stop bloody _touching. _

Alfred smiled and poured the lube onto his fingers, rubbing it quickly. Arthur threw a condom at his head.

Alfred looked up, half amused, half disappointed. "Does this mean I'm topping?"

Arthur blushed and looked away, crossing his arms. "Fine. Whatever. Just get on with it."

Alfred happily obliged, crawling over Arthur and kissing him, his hand trailing down to his ass. Arthur spread his legs wider, and Alfred tentatively pressed a finger to his entrance. Arthur had a feeling he'd done this before. Arthur pulled away from the kiss.

"I'm fine, just do it, god."

Alfred nodded, and pressed his finger in. Arthur squirmed. It didn't take him long, however, and soon Alfred pressed in a second, and after looking down at Alfred's dick, Arthur advised him to add a third.

"Ok, that's enough. Just...hurry up!"

Alfred chuckled, ripping open the condom with his teeth and easily rolling it on. "Patience, patience."

"I've been waiting all bloody night, just do it!"

Alfred positioned himself at Arthur's entrance, looking up at his face before thrusting in. Arthur gasped. "Okay, okay, stop."

Alfred laughed. "Go or stop? Make up your mind."

Arthur growled, shifting slightly, and curling his fingers into the sheets. "Alright, move."

Alfred wasted no time. He pushed deep into Arthur, moaning as he did so, his good humor apparently lost. One arm was holding him up beside Arthur's head, the other was trailing down Arthur's stomach to grasp his cock and stroke it. Arthur moaned.

"Oh fuck. Oh god. Fuck fuck fuck!"

Alfred picked up a rhythm occasionally giving into some of the kisses Arthur managed to press to his lips. The headboard slapped noisily into the wall. Arthur had forgotten about that. His neighbors would be pissed tomorrow.

Arthur pushed his hands into Alfred's hair, and threw up and legs around Alfred's waist. He hoked the other after it, groaning.

Alfred was panting, his breathing erratic and his eyes half-lidded. The room was starting to smell of sex and sweat. He thrust in hard, and Arthur nearly screaming in pleasure. He did it again, hitting the same spot, and it was enough. Arthur's hands tightened in Alfred's hair and he came into Al's palm.

Alfred followed soon after, the sound of skin slapping against skin fading. He collapsed onto Arthur, but quickly got up, pulling out of him and stripping off the condom, throwing it in the bin close to the door.

He turned back to Arthur, who was still panting. He laid down next to him, wrapping an arm around his chest and stroking at the guitar on his side as if he could actually play it.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"The Beatles are still better than The Eagles."

"Go to sleep, Arthur."

* * *

**Hey guys! This story was interesting to write. At first it was going to be fluffy but then smut happened. Oops. I don't think you'll be complaining.**

**Tell me how I did, I'm still not very confident with sex scenes and I'd appreciate some feedback!**

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


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